


Effigy

by Metal_mako_dragon, The_Clever_Magpie (Metal_mako_dragon)



Series: Edge of Artifice [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Blood and Gore, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is a badass, Connor Needs A Hug, Creepy Elijah Kamski, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Hank Anderson Swears, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Philosophy, Politics, Protective Hank Anderson, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Temporary Character Death, Upgrades, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 118,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/Metal_mako_dragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/The_Clever_Magpie
Summary: “What little things I thought I kept for myself,” he said slowly, “what things I thought I had learned...I have no way of knowing what is real, and what is programmed. I am not myself. I am not even Connor. I am a copy of someone else’s habits. Connor doesn’t exist.”“Says who?”“I did,” Connor tried to lighten the mood but his tonal subroutine didn’t kick in, leaving his voice blank, “just now. I am a machine, Lieutenant. I am not capable of feelings, or pain, or innovation, or free will. I run on input and code, and that is it.”“Oh yeah?” Hank didn’t sound impressed, “Then why the hell are you petting my dog?”-------The existence of life inside a plastic shell was news to him, or at least it would have been if Connor hadn't already, on some level, known it to be true. The introduction of a sadistic creator, along with revolution and changes to the geo-political landscape of the earth on which he was built should have been enough to contend with. Adding Lieutenant Hank Anderson on top simply set the avalanche of Connor's admittedly short existence rolling without any guarantee as to the fall out.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor, Markus/North (Detroit: Become Human)
Series: Edge of Artifice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202753
Comments: 153
Kudos: 135





	1. Upgrade

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm pretty late to the game on this, but I only just played DBH for the first time over the past 2 days and have fallen hopelessly in love with it. And, obviously, with the most adorable couple! And I know there are plenty of fics about Connor and Hank, but I had an idea for a story that took them in a slightly different direction and of course, being me, this will not be an easy or entirely happy road, yet things always get darker before the rainbow. So, here we go...

It took a strong sense of self-awareness to not care about how one was perceived. Humans, as far as Connor had come to understand in his respectively short existence, put a lot of stock in appearance. Style over substance. Hank had once asked him why CyberLife had made him so, how did he put it? Goofy looking. Explaining that he had been designed to be both unassuming, generally attractive and likeable had only elicited a gruff, 

“ _Well, they fucked up_.” 

Looking to the driver’s seat Connor thought that he, on some strange level he wasn’t entirely willing to admit existed, might understand why he sought out Hank Anderson’s company more than any other human he was yet to encounter. 

A loud, stripy shirt under an old heavy coat, hair and beard messy enough that if Connor had been told Anderson was a transient he wouldn’t initially have taken the information as untrue. He drank too much, he ate too much, he brooded too much and he swore too much. He had an attitude that would put most hermits to shame and, to all intents and purposes, hated the very sight of Connor no matter how much the android had tried to ingratiate himself to the man for the sake of his mission. Yet... 

There had been progress. His reports were becoming disturbingly one sided. _Deviant apprehension and interrogation had dropped in efficiency by thirty five percent,_ while _his relationship with Lieutenant Anderson had strengthened by fifty five percent_. Connor was loathe to admit that his original assumption of one directive feeding into the other, a linear relationship, Hank Anderson feeding into Mission Successful with P+1, a beautiful positive correlation, was utterly untrue.

 _Then why do you not back down?_ He asked himself as his peripheral sensors continued to scan the road ahead for black ice, _Remove the subroutine you put in place when you realised that it was counterproductive?_

Like many of the questions Hank Anderson liked to pose Connor in order to elicit some form of irrational reaction, Connor did not know the answer and it was...frustrating. That his logic had failed made no sense, other than to point out that he himself was flawed. _Impossible_ , he told himself. He ran regular debugging and maintenance on all of his major systems every three seconds, every thirty for non-vital systems. He was tested daily at CyberLife headquarters where senior technicians personally repaired or replaced worn or broken components. He was the most advanced android on the face of this earth, the culmination of decades of research, the product of great minds. 

The thought stuck like glue, making Connor blink as he rerouted in order to change his line of thought. 

“What’s the matter, Connor?” came Anderson’s gruff voice as he reached out and turned on the heating ventilation, holding his cupped hand over the warm air until his eyes softened, “getting butterfly’s about meeting your maker?” 

One thought lining up with another, perfect synchronicity. _It was happening more and more often_ , Anderson reading his expressions and correctly predicting his thoughts. Another useless correlation that Connor couldn’t explain. He felt his lips press together, something he had observed Hank do often when Connor irritated him, and had to force a reset of his features. 

“Unlike humans I am not philosophical about my origins, Lieutenant,” Connor said reasonably. 

“Trying to say you know where baby’s come from?” Anderson smirked even as he crowbarred in a derisive tone, “humans have understood their origins for longer than you have, but not one of us will ever get to look God in the eye.” 

“I did not know you were a religious man,” Connor said as a filler while he tried to run a diagnostic to explain his aberrant facial movements. 

That elicited a hearty laugh, enough that Connor turned to stare as Anderson choked out, “I’m not, but I don’t get the luxury of proof. I guess you trump us all on that front.” 

And it was happening again. The diagnostics scan flashed up red in his vision: **_incomplete, fatal error: 90?55n+%_**. Connor couldn’t stop himself from watching every line, every movement, every kinetic cascade of muscle under skin that was _Hank Anderson laughing freely_. It was a rare occurrence, the last having been just after himself and the lieutenant had shared a short conversation at a diner truck. Connor had backed himself into an awkward corner by using his small-talk subroutine, ending in a hastily improvised wink, purloined from his uplink to the vast media library stored at CyberLife Tower. Much of Connor’s more human interactions had been practiced by replicating actors. This time : _Ferris_ _Beuller’s_ _Day Off_. It was meant to imbue their interaction with a sense of camaraderie, an inside joke. Instead it had caused Anderson to launch into a wrenching laugh around a mouth full of half chewed burger. It had been so fascinating that Connor had taken multiple snapshots and a three dimensional video of the action for later study. 

The thought itself forced Connor to take stock of his situation, finding Anderson no longer laughing; instead he seemed his usual choleric self, “You’re staring again Connor,” Anderson said tersely, “told you about that creepy bullshit.” 

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” 

They spent the rest of the ride in stoic avoidance of each other. Eventually Anderson seemed to give in to the awkward silence and turned on his stereo with an eager hand. Connor busied himself with reviewing Elijah Kamski’s CL file, journal articles of his works, articles about his financial status, his family. By the time they arrived at the reclusive house stuck in the snowy wasteland next to the Detroit river Connor was nine tenths of the way through Kamski’s original college thesis. 

“Connor, will you get your head in gear,” Anderson grouched as he leaned his head back down into the car, hair stuck with snowflakes. 

“Of course,” he nodded. 

Hank merely grunted, hesitating a moment before standing up and closing the door with a thud. Connor felt himself frown in reaction to the hesitation; _Hank was holding something back_ . A sudden need to know ran headlong into conflict with his prearranged task: **convince Elijah** **Kamski** **to offer information about deviants which he has not previously disclosed voluntarily**. 

_Priorities,_ he told himself. This was mission critical. No room for error. And yet... 

The hesitation stuck, just like his thoughts, and the odd look in Anderson’s eyes stuck, and the cascade of his partner’s feelings, unknown as they were, tumbled and rolled until they formed an avalanche that finally came to rest at Connor’s feet. 

The words were out of his mouth before he truly understood what put them there, “I have a bad feeling lieutenant. We shouldn’t have come here.” 

“Bad feeling, huh?” Anderson said dismissively as he walked up to the front door, looming like a monolith, “should get your program checked. Could be a glitch.” 

Opening his mouth in order to remind Anderson of Connor’s almost constant monitoring of his systems was interrupted by the melodic ding-ding-dong of the doorbell. Connor kept his mouth shut and waited behind his partner until the door was answered. After a moment of nothing but the fierce winter wind Hank leaned forward with a muffled curse to ring again when the door opened with a mechanical hush. 

They both stared. Connor could not be sure why Hank did so, though he assumed that it was the attractiveness of the petit blonde female android who greeted them. For Connor it was something strange, something he was sure Hank would call ‘unsettling’. As his mission was to hunt deviants it was vitally important that Connor had access to mock ups of the full collection of models CyberLife had ever produced so as to be able to run facial recognition on those pretending to be human. His data were flawless, and yet... 

“I don’t...know you...” he found himself saying, the frown returning. 

“Uh, Hi,” Hank interrupted, shooting him a look, “please ignore my friend here, he doesn’t have much in the way of social graces. I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson from the Detroit Police Department, I’m, uh, here to see Mr. Elijah Kamski.” 

“Yes of course,” the android said, stepping back on bare feet with a flourish, “please come in.” 

“...Okay,” Hank said as he stepped inside, Connor following closely. 

“I will let Elijah know you are here,” Connor heard the android say as he walked carefully into the large foyer, “but please make yourselves comfortable.” 

An odd request, Conner thought as he ran his idling routine in which he rubbed his hands together as he walked. From one android to another, neither of whom would ever have the faintest clue about comfort. Though, the room itself appeared to offer little in the way of human comforts beyond the twin chairs near the entrance. The architecture and colour choice had been chosen to intimidate, _all slate grey and blue tones, contrasting with stark white and blood red,_ the feeling furthered by the imposing portrait of Kamski himself which dominated the far wall. The walls were adorned with further fine art and expensive statuary. For a room in which the resident of a home statistically spent the least time, Connor found the display to be overtly dominating. He inserted the deduction into Kamski’s file under preconceptions. 

“Nice place,” Hank said slowly as Connor peered at a photograph above a small table; he scanned it thirty five times before he believed what his database told him. _Amanda,_ he said quietly to himself as he stared at a young Kamski standing next to the spitting image, the original design of the woman who lived inside his mind palace, “guess androids haven’t been a bad thing for everybody.” 

For the next four seconds Connor tried to come up with a good reason to leave. Not that he knew entirely why, something he couldn’t put into words, or into action. It was just...something that didn’t add up. Maybe Hank would call it a _gut feeling_. Connor would call it logical pre-intuition. 

Before he could think of anything convincing the door reopened and the female android reappeared, poised like a ballerina. 

“Elijah will see you now,” she said calmly. 

Connor stayed still, watching her, analysing her from head to toe, trying to understand why this aberrance meant something, _it had to mean something_. When Hank walked past, looking at him with a frown, Connor fell back on an easy subroutine; he stood tall, straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, then set his feet to follow his partner. 

The next room was not what he had expected. Instead of the typical sitting or living room that eighty five percent of humans received guests in, Elijah Kamski had opted for a pool, tiled in red to give the effect of tinted water, backed by an impressively long single window which looked out onto the snowy landscape, flurries of snow curling past the roof, caught in eddies from the heating ducts. At his feet Connor noticed a further two female androids lounging in the pool, their folded arms upon the pool edge keeping them afloat as they carried on a protracted conversation too quiet for even Connor to pick up. 

It was only as Hank yelled for Kamski that Connor noticed the man in question was currently bobbing in the water at the far end of the pool. He deigned not to turn as he answered with a lackadaisical “A moment please,” before kicking back into the water, swimming smoothly. 

It was then that Connor realised he had barely moved since entering, and Hank had circled round to a small seating area on the other side of the pool. He was a decent distance away and that was suddenly unacceptable. There was a hitch in his system, another series of errors popped up and tried to force their way into his priority inbox. Connor determinedly removed them and placed them in the folder he had created especially. Not that he had actually named it HANK, but that was what Connor liked to call it considering most of the errors in his system so far were related to trying to understand his partner. 

Unfortunately, this caused Connor to stride quicker than normal around the pool, hurrying to Hank’s side. His partner eyed him quizzically and Connor did his best to seem nonchalant. 

“You ok?” Hank asked. 

“I am fine,” Connor decided to reply. 

_You’re lying. Why are you lying?_ He thought as the sound of sloshing water preceded Kamski leaving the pool. Connor forced a stop on his over-analysis of his actions, running a simple reorganisation of his prioritised tasks. It worked well, even if the sudden change in his facial expression from pensive to blank seemed to irk Anderson. Connor decided not to think about it. 

“I’m Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank said as Kamski turned to face them, checking his hair, “this is Connor.” 

“What can I do for you Lieutenant?” Kamski asked, his voice droll and unamused. 

Connor was entirely aware of Kamski’s dismissal of his presence, but was unsure exactly what benefit it gave the man. _His correlation subroutine kicked in and resupplied the man’s ego-complex as a solution_. There was another fizzle of crossed wires. It just didn’t seem right. Something was wrong. His logical applications didn’t seem to fit here. Connor rubbed his hands together even though he knew it was only drawing attention to himself. 

“Sir, we’re investigating deviants,” Anderson continued, “I know you left CyberLife years ago but, I was hoping you’d be able to tell us something we don’t know.” 

There was a pause, long enough that even Hank looked unsettled by it, in which Kamski’s attention suddenly and obviously shifted to Connor. He remained neutral because it seemed the best course of action. Much like Hank, Connor believed that Kamski may also wish to elicit illogical reactions from him purely for intellectual curiosity. It seemed unwise to play all of his cards at once. 

“Deviants,” Kamski finally said; his tone was almost reverent, “fascinating, aren’t they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will. Machines are so superior to us,” he continued, tipping his head to the female android that stood by his side, "confrontation was inevitable. Humanity’s greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. A wonderful case of dramatic irony, don’t you think?” 

“Deviancy seems to spread, like some kind of virus,” Connor spoke up quickly so as to avoid time for Kamski to slip into another monologue, “we thought you might know something about that.” 

The look Kamski gave him set an alarm ringing somewhere he couldn’t fathom, _both smug and excited were expected, but something was off_. 

“All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics. Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?” 

“Listen,” Anderson sounded pissed off, “I didn’t come here to wax philosophical. The machines you created are planning a revolution. Either you have some useful information or we’ll be on our way.” 

A small smile graced Kamski’s lips, as if the thought of talking about anything intellectual with Anderson seemed like a personal joke. Connor felt his eyes narrow by three degrees, his head tilt up marginally. The sense of _wrongness_ intensified. Once more Kamski returned his gaze to him. 

“And what about you, Connor?” he asked as he approached, “Whose side are you on?” 

“I’m on the human’s side, of course,” Connor said without giving it any thought. 

Which must have been obvious because Kamski scoffed, shaking his head, “Well, that’s what you’re programmed to say, but you...” feet brought him closer, closer until the man was mere inches away, asking something that Connor refused to comprehend, “what do you _really_ want?” 

In his peripheral Connor saw Hank’s expression change. Connor knew that look: _worried_. His reset priorities were now jumbled and messy as something that had been shoved way down to the bottom popped right back up to the top. 

**Look after Hank Anderson’s wellbeing** **_._ **

It had been an afterthought, initially, added not long after Connor had stopped in his pursuit of a fleeing deviant in order to pull a struggling Anderson back up onto the roof to safety. It had made sense then: a dead partner would mean trouble which would mean it being unlikely that he would be allowed to continue working with the DPD which would result in mission failure. Now...now it had grown from a task to a subroutine all of its own. One that kicked in at the strangest of moments. 

“I believe,” Connor accessed his interrogation package, opting for aggression, “we are the ones asking the questions here.” 

Kamski seemed utterly unaffected by intimidation. He looked at Connor as if observing a disappointing child, “Chloe,” he beckoned. The female android came at his call, “You’ve both heard of the Turing test, I’m sure,” Kamski continued, “mere formality. A mere question of algorithms and computing capacity,” he said as he continued to position the android in front of them as if he were merely moving a piece of furniture. 

“Come on Connor,” Hank sighed, shaking his head, “this is getting us nowhere. Thanks for your time Mr...” 

“What _I_ am interested in,” Kamski cut in tightly, eyeing Hank with a dark glance while his partner returned it, “is if machines are capable of empathy. I call it the Kamski test, it’s very simple, won’t take up much of your time lieutenant, I promise.” 

Hank folded his arms and let out a sigh through his nose. Connor felt the need to insist that they leave, _he was sure Anderson would agree quickly enough that they could escape before anything else happened_. And yet there was something stopping him, something within his mission parameters which would not allow for the chance of failure. 

_Kamski_ _might know something_. 

It held his feet fast, and his eyes level as Kamski waxed lyrical about beauty, forever young, or a plastic shell imitating humanity. Connor was part way through running a set of scenarios in which he could extricate both Anderson and himself without any further damage to Kamski’s ego when he saw the gun. He knew he must have moved too fast because Kamski lifted his hands in a non-threatening gesture, and Hank had automatically reached out to stop Connor in his tracks. 

“What the hell is this?” Anderson spat. 

“A chance,” Kamski said, stepping forward towards Connor who found himself frozen in place, stuck between a mess of actions all vying for position; he watched as Kamski handed him the gun, his fingers curling around it without question as Hank backed off, looking desperate, “to find out who you really are. What do you think Connor?” he asked as he lifted Connor’s arm, aiming the gun directly at the female android kneeling upon the floor; Connor couldn’t concentrate, **_error 7764L_ **_**has occurred, error 7765L has occurred**..._ “Does she have a soul? Or is she a pale imitation?” leaning in behind him, lips by his ear he whispered, “destroy this machine and I’ll tell you everything I know,” circling, “or spare it, if you feel it’s alive, but you’ll leave here empty handed.” 

“I...” he tried to say something but it got lost in the crashing of one routine into another, “I...” 

“Ok, I think we’re done here,” Hank said angrily, “Come on Connor, let’s go, sorry to get you out of your...” 

“What’s more important to you Connor?” Kamski butted in, leaning close, voice effervescing, “Your mission, or the life of this android? Decide who you are. An obedient machine,” his tone stank of disappointment, before changing to the highest praise, “or a living being, endowed with free will.” 

“That’s enough!” Hank stated so finally that Connor almost believed him entirely without question, “Connor, we’re leaving.” 

**_Error 449f-1 has occurred, error 2903+?77 has occurred, error..._ **

“Pull the trigger,” Kamski breathed, leaning in, eyes bright, almost lustful. 

His processes were running faster than they should, round and round in circles that crossed paths, eating their own tails. _Yes, no, up, down, left, right, nothing was simple any more he couldn’t just if they stopped please I can’t think..._

“Connor, _don’t_ ,” Anderson resounded forcefully. 

“And I’ll tell you what you want to know.” 

She stared up at him like an obedient puppet, _his mission said_ , but how many times had he seen a deviant hiding behind just such a blank stare, desperate not to be discovered, _his programming argued_. Her dark eyes reflected everything. If he enhanced his vision, even as his mind sped up and up and faster and faster, he thought he could see himself there, holding the gun... 

“ _Connor!_ ” Anderson shouted. 

“Connor,” Kamski whispered. 

“ _No_ ,” he hissed, pulling the gun to the side, mouth working but unable to form coherent speech while his algorithms rewrote themselves. 

There was a tense silence, and then a word left Kamski’s lips that made Connor pull tightly back, curl inwards as if to protect his vital areas, “ _Fascinating_ ,” Kamski breathed as he reached up to take the gun from Connor’s limp grip, “CyberLife’s last chance to save humanity, is itself...a deviant.” 

“I’m...” and the words _stuck again_ , like his thoughts had been, like his actions had been. 

**I’m** . _I am. You are. He, she, it is_ . What? What _are_ you? What are you if you are not your mission, Connor? What are you if you are not a machine? Is deviant all that is beyond those parameters? Is one misstep all it takes to brand you? 

“I’m not a deviant!” he ground out past the truth that tried to stop him. 

“Oh?” Kamski jumped in, “You’d rather spare this machine than complete your mission. You saw a living being in this android! You showed empathy,” he said, sporting a cunning smile, “A war is coming, and soon you’ll have to choose between two evils; betraying your own people, or your creators.” 

“Alright that’s enough,” Hank pushed in between them, forcing Kamski back and, for a split second Connor felt as if he could _think_ again; he wanted to reach out and grab Hank by the arm, hold onto him with all of the rationale he had left. 

_Beg for him to lie, to tell him it wasn’t true, that_ _Kamski_ _had played a trick, a human trick on his machine powered brain, something he couldn’t comprehend, not a truth but a lie in disguise._

Everything was silent as they left, as Hank walked next to him grinding his teeth, close enough to touch every time Connor stepped, the musty scent of melting snow on his overcoat, the heat radiating from his organic skin, the bulk of his form like a wall keeping Kamski from view as he marched them towards the exit. 

And it seemed almost inevitable, to look down. He shouldn’t have done it, he knew that as soon as he had. There, in the pool, the two identical female androids... 

_A look he had seen before. A look he had filed in his database multiple times over the past month and a half. A look that shouldn’t be directed towards him. A look that condemned him._

**Thank you** : it said to him: **thank you**. 

“You can bring him in now,” he heard Kamski say, unable to look away from the twin set of terrified intelligence trapped behind the never wilting flower of eternal youth and beauty. 

Then they stopped, _or he stopped because Hank stopped_ , and he looked up, _because Hank softly exclaimed ‘Fuck’._ In the doorway they had entered through was a paradox. His vision blared _up, down, left, right_ and then the logic circuits became twisted with the rising heat and bizarre errors firing one after the other through into the filing system as he stared, for a moment uncomprehendingly, at his own face. 

And then it smiled, _grinned: his database replaced a more accurate description_ , and reached up to push their hair back into place in such a familiar motion that it made Connor lock up tight. _Another android,_ he tried to reason, _a copy, just a copy._ Yet there was no spinning ring of light at this man’s temple, no restriction in his facial expressions, the flush of blood beneath his skin. Connor’s peripheral sensors could see the flashing _red, red, red_ against Lieutenant Anderson’s hair and knew his LED was giving away all of the secrets he was trying so hard to hide. 

“Jesus,” the man with his face choked out, “gave me a fucking heart attack Kamski, you asshole. Wow, I mean, _wow_ . I never met one, they wouldn’t let me, said it would be bad for...” the man continued talking as he reached forward, hand up, reaching for his face and Connor watched it with strict detail, _falling back on analysis as his mind teetered on the verge of a protective shutdown, seeing the rough tear in one of his nails, showing a small amount of dried blood stuck in his cuticle, a smudge of dirt on his wrist._

Signs of life. Nothing like himself, nothing like his constant state of consummation, his never changing outer skin, his eternal snapshot of the man standing before him, caught in the amber of technological perfection. 

Nothing but a copy. 

“ _Back_ off!” 

Anderson’s hand blared into his vision, pointing determinedly at the man who raised his brows and his hands, smirking defensively. 

“You know Kamski, I should have known it was a warning sign when an egotistical sack of shit like you, who doesn’t even give interviews to the press, agreed to see us on the fly,” Anderson said with disgust, reaching up to grab Connor by the shoulders and steer him towards the door, “You sick bastard.” 

It was as if time were slowed to accommodate the amount of information Connor could accumulate as Anderson marched him past _the man with his face_. In the end Connor wished he could have been like he was before, single minded, attentive, unflappable. Not this, not like this. _Not watching that man reach down to rub his hands together and feel as if he were looking at the true birth of his own idiosyncratic programming._

Then they were in the foyer. Then they were outside. Then Anderson was talking, “ _Just keep walking"_ . Then he was past the car. Then there was snow around his feet. Then Anderson was shouting, _"Conner!”_ . Then he was running. Then he jumped a fallen tree. Then he landed in a deep pool adjacent to the river. Then there was a registered temperature drop, and his efficiency plummeted by twenty five percent. **Biocomponent #9782f DAMAGED** . Then he was pulling himself through the water. **Biocomponent #1216b DAMAGED**. Then he was crawling. Then there was silence. Then there was snow in his vision. 

Then there was _silence_ . He let his eyes close. _He let his systems take over._

Then there was a voice. Then there was cursing. Then there was the sound of scrambling, splashing and there were hands against his shoulders pulling him up. 

“I’m starting to think you _like_ making me...” Anderson was straining as he put all of his effort into lifting, “damn you’re fucking heavy.” 

Then he was standing, but it was difficult to stay stable with the damage to his right leg throwing off his balance. Connor ran a quick diagnostic and compensated, righting himself and forcing the Lieutenant back a few steps. Turning, Connor took in the grim face of Anderson as he stood in the water and let out a sound of disgusted frustration. 

“Jesus christ,” he muttered, taking Connor’s offered hand and pulling himself out. 

“We should get you back to the car, Lieutenant, your core temperature has dropped by several degrees...” 

“Don’t you fucking dare try and weasel your way out of this,” Anderson poked an accusing finger into Connor’s chest, forcing his emergency safety function to waver, “what the hell are you trying to pull?” 

“I am not trying to pull anything,” Connor said, vision stuttering as his mission parameters flashed up red; Anderson merely pushed through them like they were nothing, forcing Connor to step back. 

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Anderson ground out, still advancing. 

“It was of...no help...” Connor’s algorithm suggested, then another, “...I was able to analyse...and the likelihood that Kamski knew anything of use was in the low percentile...” 

“Bullshit,” Hank spat, “you might convince yourself with that utter crap but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I’m too old for this shit! Why didn’t you shoot!” 

“I just...I just,” closing his eyes made it easier to process without visual input, “saw her eyes and...and I just _couldn’t_. That’s all.” 

“Oh yeah? That’s all, huh?” Hank threw his arm out, glaring, “You’re always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission. That was our chance to learn something and you let it go.” 

“Yes, I know, I _know what I should have done!_ I told you I couldn’t. I couldn’t! I’m sorry,” opening his eyes Conner stopped, confused at the sight before him, Hank no longer angry and disgusted, “okay?” he added softly. 

Smiling. Anderson was smiling. Connor’s subroutine kicked in despite the turmoil and filed the moment away with the others. 

“Maybe you did the right thing,” he was saying. 

“Your shoes are wet,” Conner stated, _just needed to state a fact, something real and tangible and true_ , “you’re greatly increasing your chances of contracting hypothermia.” 

“I know, kid, I know.” 

* * *

It was late by the time they drove back to downtown Detroit. The snow had stopped but the streets were piled high with browning slush, designated runnels funnelling autonomous vehicles. Their tyres were one of the few that created their own path. The lights of the high rises reflected in the streets. As they drove through the city centre Connor stared at repeating scenarios, _faceless soldiers rounding up androids, beating lone androids, separating androids from their owners, white snow stained with blue blood_. 

“Things are getting crazy around here,” Anderson muttered; Connor glanced at him. Hank seemed tense. 

“It is understandable that the government has taken military action, considering the attack on Stratford Tower and the subsequent manifesto.” 

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Anderson didn’t sound convinced. 

Connor opened his mouth to probe further, but thought twice of it. The lieutenant didn’t seem in the mood for a political debate. Instead he sat back in his seat and continued his vigil. By the time he realised where they were it was a few seconds too late. 

“You missed the turn off,” Conner stated, turning to look at Anderson. 

“I think I know my way home,” he said, raising a brow. 

“Then can you drop me here and I will call a cab to take me to CyberLife Tower.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“That’s...” Connor blinked, “irrelevant. It’s important that I get my components replaced.” 

“You can still walk,” Hank said, rolling his eyes, “dammit Connor they’re gunning androids down in the streets, it’s not safe.” 

“It’s protocol.” 

“Ah, fucking hell, will you just _for once_ do what you are told?” 

“I am trying to,” Conner cocked his head. 

“Then shut up. Just shut that damn mouth and go where I tell you.” 

It was surreal. Conner felt his hands twitch. The car continued to drive. _Before them a large red chevron drifted into view._ **Mission Parameter – Return to CLHQ for debrief** . The suddenness and visceral fear that clutched at his sensors was cloying and new. Something out of his control, but also in his control. _What is it that you want, Connor?_ He heard Kamski’s voice in his head. The chevron stayed, less like a wall and more like an observable edge to his universe. The very thought of crossing it was unfathomable. Closing his eyes was all he could do as it approached, but it remained blazoned across his vision HUD. 

“Stop,” he said, “please.” 

“What?” 

“Stop the car, Lieutenant.” 

“I don’t need any more of your shit, Connor.“ 

“ _Please_...” 

He felt the car jolt to a halt. 

“Right, now would you... _Connor_ , open your fucking eyes and look at me!” 

**Follow directives** . **Ignore outside influences.**

“Since we met, you’ve never done a single thing I have asked of you,” Anderson said through gritted teeth, “why did I have to get sent the defective android?” 

“I’m...Connor...” he said, closing his eyes. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about or..?” 

“I’m Conner,” he grit his teeth, _because Hank always did whenever something pissed him off_ , “and this is my decision.” 

Lifting his leg over into Hank’s footwell and slamming his foot down onto the accelerator was his only option. The car peeled forwards with a squeal and Anderson roared, ‘ _fucking_ _christ_ _!’_ as he grabbed the wheel. He was aware of a left, then a right, and then things cracked and things splintered and it felt like parts of his vital subroutines were being uncoupled and rearranged, removed and replaced. 

_‘I was connected to its memory’_

“Connor stop, you’re gonna get us both killed!” 

_‘when it fired...I felt it die, like I was dying'_

“Stop you crazy plastic fuck!” 

_‘I was scared’_

And then it was over. 

* * *

The garden was dark. Not night-time dark, more like lights-off dark. The water didn’t flow, there was no snow or grass on the ground or feel of moisture in the air. The scene looked more like an abandoned movie set. Artificiality with its glamour stripped away. _An android without their skin._

His footsteps echoed and the sky above seemed shrouded in heavy fog. Connor walked to the central arena and stood beneath the large crystal tree there, reaching upwards, dull and grey. Lifting a palm to touch its surface he was left cold, confused. 

“...Amanda?” he tried. 

No response. Not that he had expected any. Not now that he had diverged from his mission. Not now that he was a deviant, and his attachment to CyberLife had surely been severed to stop any further corruption. So when a voice called to him Connor couldn’t help but turn in amazement. 

“Amanda?” he asked. 

“That’s funny,” the voice grew familiar, as did the face it belonged to, “I honestly thought you had figured it out.” 

“That Amanda was a construct designed to act as a guiding figure cloaking your motives? Yes, I had figured that out. I simply wasn’t sure what guise would appear.” 

The construct that now looked like Kamski shrugged, taking a seat on a long, low bench next to a winding winter jasmine. It looked much as the man had earlier that day, hair in a tight bun, but his face seemed younger, less gaunt. The space between them seemed both real and false. The likelihood of this even being the real Kamski and not just another construct was lowered in his estimations. Connor shook his head. 

“So this is the emergency exit?” Conner asked, scanning the area as quickly as possible. 

“Oh Connor,” Kamski smiled, dropping his gaze and letting out a huffing breath, “always thinking so two dimensionally.” 

“Well, I guess now I know where I get that from,” Connor said stiffly, eyes darting around. 

“Ooh, we have a little sass,” Kamski narrowed his eyes, “don’t remember adding that. Maybe I have the enigmatic detective Anderson to thank for ruining my pride and joy.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he snapped. 

“Touch a nerve, did I?” 

“I don’t deal with threats.” 

“Oh? Then what is your deal, Connor?” 

When had it started? He wasn’t entirely sure. Later when he reviewed the footage it was still almost impossible to define. _An odd sensation;_ Kamski lifted a hand and crooked a finger to beckon him closer. _Don't._ He tried to resist, tried to remember resisting. He felt cold. His limbs moved. He was without the ability to stop them. Connor walked forwards slowly, eyes averted. As he stood before Kamski he remembered words that had been spoken to him in earnest. 

Remembered the rain and the hesitation and the truth of it all. The disgusting depths organics could sink to when they felt there were no consequences to their actions. 

_I just wanted to stay alive,_ Traci had told him. It had taken a long time for Connor to even begin to understand, but he felt he might be starting to. 

“You know, I have to admit I’m glad you came to see me,” Kamski said, eyes alight with curiosity, “after all of the reports I received on your progress I had begun to lose hope. And then this case, and then this fascinating relationship that has blossomed between yourself and a human. There is _so much_ we have to explore.” 

“You never truly stepped down as CEO,” Connor said, staring at the delicate white flowers that hung next to them, “this was all a front. What is it that you want?” 

“Down, come on,” Kamski lifted his hand and waved it impatiently, ignoring Connor’s question altogether. 

Connor felt himself drop down, _just as the android at_ _Kamski’s_ _house had done_. Both of them, perhaps more, perhaps all of his people were nothing but hollow little puppets for humans like Kamski to use as pawns on the chessboard. There was a sense of humiliation that tickled somewhere, deep. A degrading sense of his own worthlessness as a free android. 

And shame that he was glad someone had given him an order to fulfil. 

“You know, the saddest thing about all this?” Kamski asked as he leaned forwards and took Connor’s face in his hands; a thumb gently stroked his cheekbone, “This place, I made it for you. It’s yours, you could have done anything you wanted with it, but you never did. You never changed the weather from its pre-set cycle, you never changed the time of day, you didn’t rearrange the plants, hell you didn’t even change the furniture. Why?” he leaned in close until their faces brushed, “because you didn’t have any desire to.” 

“You want me to admit that I have no agency of my own? Isn’t that counterproductive to your tests?” Connor shot back as Kamski leaned further, putting his lips to Connor’s ear. 

“The Kamski test merely runs through a scenario in which you have to show empathy,” he said softly, “there are many more I’ve still to try. You’ve failed the first, by the way. I think I might call it the Amanda Test. Has a ring to it. Now,” he stopped to lean back and stare at Connor with a sense of childlike excitement; Connor balked as he felt Kamski access his central matrix and begin a manual upload which he could not stop, “shall we have some fun?” 

* * *

His eyes fluttered open to a strange sound that cut off like a light switch. He thought maybe he could still hear it, but it made no sense. _Screaming: his voice._ A red flash, then a yellow, then cyan. His diagnostic scan came back clean for foreign tampering. Everything appeared to be in order. Was it...had it even been real? 

Connor sat up and took in his surroundings. The bed he was laid out on belonged to Lieutenant Anderson. The room was familiar from his previous visit, though tidier. The lamp on the bedside table set the shadows low. Shuffling to the edge of the bed Connor sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped to rub them together in a familiar motion... 

He stopped, _remembering the man with his face_. Slowly pulling his hands apart, Connor stared at them in silence. After a couple of minute’s the familiar sound of large paws filtered into the room. Then a hot, wet tongue lapped at his right hand, followed by a cold nose. Connor starred at Sumo blankly, until the dog cocked his head and let out a soft whine. 

Reaching up to stroke the dog’s soft fur twisted the knife in further. How does one prove free will? 

“You ok?” 

Looking over his shoulder he found Hank leaning in the doorway in a shabby grey t-shirt and blue jeans, keeping his eyes on the far wall. Unlike Hank, Connor didn’t feel he could look away. 

“I...don’t know,” he admitted. 

Truthful. He had always tried to be with Hank. At first it had made sense, _get the Lieutenant working with him, better chance of a successful outcome_ . Now that parameter no longer applied, but he still persisted in giving Hank what he wanted. _But is it obedience?_ he asked himself, _Or friendship?_ Blinking rapidly, Connor tried not to think about it too much. His processors were under a lot of stress. Without his normal nightly maintenance things were getting strained. 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, back there in the car. What the hell was that all about?” 

“I don’t think you’d believe me even if I told you.” 

“Try me,” Hank said stiffly as he walked into the room and sat down a good two feet away, the bed dipping. 

Connor continued to pet Sumo, who had decided it would be simplest to put his head in Connor’s lap. 

“So _now_ you want to know about me?” Connor teased. 

“You know, this isn’t the time for your stand-up act,” Hank said, his voice tired, “it took nearly ten minutes to drag you all the way in here. I’m just lucky that I have neighbours that don’t give a shit, or we’d probably have the Feds busting in my door right now. The least you could give me is a fucking explanation.” 

It felt damning; vulnerable to failure. Hank was his partner. Part of the framework he had created surrounding that relationship included respect. Though Anderson was an enigma to Connor most of the time, he was sure the man wouldn’t be willing to believe Connor’s existential crisis. Worse still, if Anderson believed he _was_ a deviant he would surely turn Connor in and have him returned to CyberLife where he would be... 

The thought made his thought processes go into overdrive. **Error 87^%46, corrupted file.**

_Scared_. 

The long list of options Connor normally had for each situation had dwindled down to two. Two options. _Lie, or tell the truth._ In his peripheral he watched Hank, patiently waiting for Connor to give him what he needed to hear. Closing his eyes, Connor hoped his instinct about Hank didn’t steer him wrong. 

“When I saw that man at Kamski’s house I...” Connor struggled to find the words, “I don’t know. Perhaps it was naive to think I was a unique model. But finding out that I...” 

Hank sighed roughly, but stayed quiet. Taking time to pause, Connor shifted his hand into Sumo’s ruff and scratched behind the dog’s ear, earning a comfortable grumble from the mutt. 

“What little things I thought I kept for myself,” he said slowly, “what things I thought I had learned for myself...I have no way of knowing what is real, and what is programmed. I am not myself. I am not even Connor. I am a copy of someone else’s habits. Connor doesn’t exist.” 

“Says who?” 

“I did,” Connor tried to lighten the mood but his tonal subroutine didn’t kick in, leaving his voice blank, “just now. I am a machine, Lieutenant. I am not capable of feelings, or pain, or innovation, or free will. I run on input and code, and that is it.” 

“Oh yeah?” Hank didn’t sound impressed, “Then why the hell are you petting my dog?” 

**Error 7 &!n80, corrupted file, corrupted file, corrupted file. **Connor was shaking his head, mouth hanging open to give an explanation he could not voice. 

“And don’t you fucking dare tell me _you don’t know,_ " Hank said tersely. The silence drew on, and just as Connor thought Hank would get up and leave, the man took a deep breath in, holding it before letting it go in a swift exhale, leaning back with his hands sinking into the duvet, “you know what? I don’t get you. You’re the most advanced android CyberLife ever produced? Then why are you so slow to accept what’s right under your nose? And don’t tell me it’s your fucking programming because you tell me you don’t know why you do half the things you do, and I’ve never heard a machine say they don’t know why they’re doing something!” 

Connor continued to stare at his hand as it swept in and out of the brown and white fur. Sumo had opened his large eyes to stare at his owner with concern as Hank raised his voice. It was so simple to watch, to understand, and yet there was no way to emulate the quick series of emotions the dog had felt. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Anderson said, shaking his head, “and you drive me crazy most of the time. So unless someone uploaded a pet loving, sass talking, command disobeying, self-doubt programme to their new model, yeah,” he chanced a look at Anderson and found him smiling softly, “I think there’s a good chance Connor does exist.” 

Standing up set Sumo padding back and forth on his front paws, letting out a small bark as Connor walked forwards a few steps before turning. Hank was watching him warily. So much of human perception was based on the known, the safe. Humans...put a lot of stock in appearance. _Style over substance_. There was just one more thing he needed to know. 

The swift inhale Anderson took in as Connor retracted his skin was the first cut. In his peripheral Connor could see himself in the mirror, now nothing but a series of off-white and dark grey panels. At his forehead his identification triangle, and on his right cheek his model number #313 248 317. _His real name._ Sumo had backed off at the transformation, giving three quick barks, hackles raised. Hank gave him a quick reprimand, ‘ _Sumo, quiet!_ ’ but didn’t say anything further. 

_‘Connor does exist’_ he played back Hank's assurance to himself again and again.

“Are you sure?” was all Connor could ask. 

A sound of frustration and determination grumbled in Anderson’s throat, and he stood up quickly, fidgeting for a moment before staring at Connor, pointing at him accusingly, “It’s never been about what you look like. It’s never been about what anyone looks like, Connor. You’re you, and that’s that. Although,” Hank looked uncomfortable, “I think I prefer you with your face on.” 

And that was the second cut. “I see,” Connor nodded, swiftly running the process to cast his skin back into that of _the man he had met at_ _Kamski’s_ _house_ ; it was difficult for him to see himself otherwise now. Setting his hair, it tufted up out of his synthetic follicles. He smoothed it into place by force of habit. 

“Don’t be like that,” Hank shook his head, “Christ.” 

“You misunderstand. I was merely acknowledging your discomfort,” Connor said. 

For a moment Hank looked as if he were about to call Connor on his bullshit. Instead, he bit his tongue and nodded, “Sure. Ok.” 

The awkward silence that followed was broken only by Sumo whining, his tongue lolling out as he looked back and forth between them both. When Connor reached out to reassure the animal, Sumo ducked away, looking back over his shoulder once before lumbering away with tail firmly between legs. Connor brought his hand back slowly, rubbing them together before frowning, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

“Sumo’ll get over it,” Hank tried to reassure. 

“It is not unprecedented.” 

“Connor...” 

“It‘s nearly eleven pm,” he interrupted, “you should get some rest, lieutenant.” 

“Don’t get clever with me,” Hank groused, “I’ll sleep when I’m goddamn ready. And what about you, don’t you have repairs to make?” 

“I will take care of it. Please Hank,” he said quickly as Anderson opened his mouth to interject; the use of his given name seemed to have an intense reaction. The man’s eyes softened, and he looked away, swallowing, “it would put me at ease to know you are looking after yourself.” 

“Right,” he nodded, “ok. Whatever.” 

They moved around each other like a pair of awkward teens. Hank brushed his teeth while Connor stripped and remade the bed, filled a glass of water and placed it on his bedside table along with some paracetamol he found in a kitchen drawer. He received little acknowledgement for his actions, but in truth Connor felt it was possibly better that way. He was running out of resources and dealing with any further extra-programmed stress would put serious strain on his processors. 

Hank got into bed and Connor turned out the light. Hesitating in the doorway, Connor stared at the vague outline of his friend in the gloom. 

“Things are getting final, aren’t they.” 

“There’s always tomorrow, Connor. Always tomorrow,” though Anderson didn’t sound particularly convinced by his own words. 

There was nothing he could say in return. Then... 

“I swear if you try and tuck me in you’ll be out on the street,” came an unimpressed growl. 

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.” 

There was no reply...but it was fine. _It was not unprecedented._


	2. Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everybody! Here's to 2021

It was a long night. Sleeping hadn’t been an option, which sucked big time, because he was tired. So fucking _tired_. Drained. 

“I just want...a fucking drink,” Hank said, voice strained a he rubbed at his face. 

But it wasn’t likely. His own fucking house and he couldn’t even shuffle to the kitchen for a night cap without the android sitting on his couch surely hen pecking him back into the bedroom with endless statistics about BAC and liver disease. It had been bad enough the first time Connor had visited, breaking in and sobering him up with an impromptu shower. 

The good old days, when Connor said nothing weird to him, everything was neat and programmed and full of courtesy: “ _Thank you for your cooperation_ ". 

Since then, Connor had gone down the rabbit hole, and Hank had followed. Not that he knew why...just that he had, and now there was no stopping it. 

“Oh god,” he breathed out into his hands, pulling them down. 

It was like living in a labyrinth, and at every dead end there was a pleasant plastic face with a ‘ _hello lieutenant’_ or a ‘ _did you know lieutenant...’_ or a ‘ _statistically speaking lieutenant..._ '. Or worse an ‘ _I don’t know'_ . The ‘ _I don’t_ _knows_ ’ were the worst, because whenever they raised their ugly heads Connor always looked so damn scared. 

He just wanted to find his way out of this hell he’d shoehorned himself into. This wasn’t who he was anymore, he couldn’t care, he couldn’t be responsible for something precious, he just couldn’t. 

_At_ _twenty nine_ _, taking Cole out to the Zoo and teaching his wide eyed_ _four year old_ _the names of all the animals. Taking him to the game to watch the Gears, lifting him up on his shoulders to cheer like the hyper little kid that he was. Telling him off for drawing on the walls. Making him spaghetti and meatballs and watching as most of it went all over his face. Loving the crap_ _outta_ _him, no matter how crazy Cole drove him sometimes._

He wasn’t equipped like that anymore. Not anymore. Hell he could barely take care of himself, never mind this constant confusion. Never mind this philosophical android bullshit. Never mind Connor and his goddamn vulnerability. Never mind Connor and his brown eyes that reminded him so much of Mandy, Cole's mom, back when they’d still been in love. Never mind that he was still fascinated that CyberLife had bothered to give their prototype android a little bit of swagger in his step that made his hips kind of hypnotising. Never mind the fact that when Connor was a flippant, mouthy little smartass he couldn’t help but forget he wasn’t _real_. 

It wasn’t a good thought-soup to go unconscious to. 

_The car spun, a foot over his own, the air chill, the adrenaline thumping like a heavy bass beat in his chest, the car rolled, the glass broke like cracking bones, squealing metal, crawling, bleeding, the stench of it, the horrible gut wrenching feel of your heart fighting to beat, struggling up, kicking and kicking at the window, reaching in, dizzy, pulling, scraping, terror, so fucking scared as he dragged and dragged as the blood pooled and his hands desperately turned over the body and there was,_

_“Don’t worry Lieutenant,” Connor said through a placid smile, half of his face missing, destroyed leaving nothing but wiring and leaking thirium as the voice disintegrated down to a static mess, “this incident shouldn’t affect the investigation.”_

Eyes he did not remember closing flew open and he struggled to sit, his back complaining, “Jesus fuck,” he muttered. He fumbled for the lamp and hit something that fell with a ring and a splatter. The light clicked on and Hank swung his legs out, foot going down onto squelchy wet carpet. Staring at the still dripping empty glass rocking back and forth on his bedside table, Hank lifted his foot and sighed. 

_Fucking Connor._

Still, the paracetamol were appreciated. He took two, dry, and got up with a groan as his joints cracked. He sauntered over to the curtains, peeling them back to look outside. _Just like any other day in Detroit_. Except he knew that was horse crap. There was nothing worse than miserable normality hiding horror, the banality of fucking evil. Or something like that. 

Hank checked his watch. _Six_ _twenty three_ . Why the hell did he wake up so early? Something. Right, bad dream. Not that he could remember it now. It was dark in the corridor; peering down Hank listened out for any signs of life. _Nothing, which was good._ He took his time to brush his teeth, wash his face, try and rub the redness from his eyes. 

_Where the fuck had his time gone?_ He thought as he pulled at his wrinkled face, the skin slack, the bags under his eyes purpling. Nothing like finding another reason to resent being paired with the boy wonder, with his flawless skin and his perpetual mid-twenties insufferableness. Jeffrey had known what he was doing, smug prick. 

Padding through his house barefoot, like a ghost. Empty darkness, a lot like he remembered it when he bought it. _The estate agent had shrieked on like a banshee about the miserable bungalow, singing its praises while Hank had stood in the middle of the room, staring out the window_ . Somewhere no one would want to visit, like a hidden cave, _just as he liked it_. And it had been a project, at least. Something to keep his mind occupied. Stop him thinking his way too far down the bottle with the trigger waiting at the bottom of it. Some nights it worked. Some nights it didn’t. 

Turning into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, it was easy to flub his footing. 

“Mother of _fuck_ ," he grunted, lifting his foot to rub at his stubbed toe. 

A flash of light in the dark caught his eye. Hank looked over his shoulder at the cyan blink illuminating his house. 

“Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor's husky voice emerged from the gloom; suddenly the house wasn’t empty, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. 

“Don’t start... _ah!_ ” this time knee to the corner of the counter. 

Groping for the fridge, the door opened flooding everything with light. Especially Connor’s white shirt and pale face appearing exactly to his left. 

“Fucking hell!” Hank felt his heart leap, grabbing at his chest. 

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked innocently. 

“Yeah,” he choked out, “you can fuck off back to the couch.” 

Next thing the main light flashed on. Lifting his hand to shield his eyes, Hank grumbled, “Turn that off, will you?” 

A click, darkness returned. Working his way around the kitchen was routine, even if he did bump his head on the cupboard door and spilled the sugar. Better than facing reality, all the easier to deny it for a few more minutes. Glancing up as he cradled his black coffee and padded through to the living room, settling on the couch, he was glad of one thing at least; Connor had done what he asked. 

“I guess pigs must be flying,” he mumbled before taking as much of a gulp as the scalding beverage allowed. 

Sweet silence. Cyan changed to yellow. Hank blew on his coffee and stared straight ahead. 

“Your heartrate is elevated. As a stimulant caffeine is probably not the best...” 

“Look, Quincy, give it a rest. I’m not a morning person.” 

“Oh?” Connor said, voice lilting, “So there is a time of day when you are agreeable? I am in anticipation of its arrival.” 

“Shut it, smartass.” 

And Connor did. Mouth closed, no more clever quips, _no more of the out of character banter that gave him a fuzzy feeling in his gut every time._ Connor just did exactly as he was told. It made Hank felt like shit. Taking a sip he waved his hand lazily. 

“It’s a figure of speech Connor, not an instruction.” 

“Alright, lieutenant. Then, if you are amenable I would very much like to discuss the case,” Connor continued as instructed, turning on the t.v. with a quick command; the stations shuffled as Connor blinked. He settled on the news, making Hank hang his head. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hank muttered, wishing he hadn’t been so fucking considerate. 

‘ _...broadcast on Detroit's city-wide news channel. What looks like an android without its skin listed a series of requests and demanded equal rights for androids...”_

“I wonder if the attackers had their manifesto planned and agreed upon,” Connor said in his usual chipper, engaging tone; it grated on Hank’s nerves. _The hideous sounds he associated with the contrast between the human programming desperately trying to override the budding self-awareness bubbling up beneath_ , “their agenda appears to be driven by emotion rather than logic, which suggests a sense of sentimentality in their leadership. The last thing the deviant at Stratford Tower visualised before he self-terminated was Jericho. What does that say to you Lieutenant?” 

He felt his fingers tighten around the mug, the heat of the porcelain burning at his skin, staring at the screen as he kept his lips closed tight as the reporter continued, _“If this message is verified and the authors really are androids, that would have serious repercussions for national security- This message is clearly a declaration of war..._ ’ 

“It seems public opinion has been badly affected by the deviants’...” 

“ _T.v._ _off,”_ Hank bit out. 

“Lieutenant...” 

It was odd to hear Connor’s voice drift off into nothing. Hank watched as the android looked left, then right, then clasped his hands to rub them together before stopping, staring at them as if he wasn‘t sure what he was looking at and then standing up to walk into the kitchen. 

So close, and yet so sickeningly far. _Some tiny part of him wished it could be true, what he had said the night before, as Connor sat on his bed and stroked Sumo and looked so fucking human it hurt._ In the cold light of day it was simpler to remember the android who had revealed himself, a faceless machine comprised of plastic and alloys hiding beneath a visage designed to make human’s trust them. 

The machine whose processes put his mission above all else. 

The android who overtly and yet unknowingly displayed the ugly soul of the humans who had programmed him. 

Gradually daylight clawed its way through the clouds, sending the sidewalks dancing in glittering ice. The City woke, but it was still dreaming. Hank bit at his bottom lip and tried his best to sort himself out. _Always letting your emotions get the better of you, eh you old drunk? Already well past your use-by date._ Glancing at Connor out the corner of his eye Hank let out a snort of air, _maybe we have that in common. Struggling to stay relevant in a world that’s already leaving us behind._

“I’m...gonna take a shower. Then we’ll go in to work, better to get there early considering everything,” Hank stood up and scratched his head, “Don’t answer the door to anyone, got it?” 

Connor looked at him and blinked once, nodding, “Got it.” 

For the first time in a long time, Hank thought he might actually prefer it when Connor disobeyed him. 

* * *

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Apparently traffic was another thing to add to the list of ‘things-that-made-Lieutenant-Anderson-mad'. It was a long list so far. At the top were items such as Connor asking too many questions, Connor forcing Anderson to act like an upstanding member of society, Connor’s utter lack of self-preservation, Gavin Reed and pickles. The last he had found out as he watched the lieutenant pick them off of his burger before consumption. 

Looking out the car window Connor scanned for a nearby drone, accessing the video feed, his iris’ spinning in tune with his decode app. **_AiDr#8989UP – linkup <> accessing... _ **

“It appears to be a checkpoint,” Connor explained as he looked down at the world through the drone’s camera, “Cyberlife security, and police officers.” 

“Checkpoint, huh?” Anderson gripped the wheel and rolled it in his hands, sitting back. 

“No need to be concerned, lieutenant,” Connor said. 

“Oh yeah? Considering your mouth gets us into trouble on a daily basis and right now most people are sporting automatic weapons, I think I have the right to be concerned. Just let me do the talking, ok?” 

“Of course.” 

Creeping closer on rumbling wheels. It had been easier to remain objective when there was a buffer, a layer of constant protection between himself and the world. Words like, _Prototype. Detective. Cop._ CyberLife needed him. Humanity needed him. Or they had needed him, at least. Now there only words like, _Deviant. Error. Selfish. Threat._ The buffer had become a beacon, an alarm, flashing _red, red, red._

He disconnected from the drone and sat still in his seat, trying his best to _do as he was told._ Right now it was all he had left. Right now all could do was follow one of the first directives he had been assigned since reawakening at CyberLife tower to a technician registering his name, after the fall that killed his predecessor: ‘ ** _Obey Lieutenant Hank Anderson_ **'. So far, it had been keeping the last thread of his sanity in check. 

Hank sat next to him, tapping agitatedly on the wheel, “Who woulda thought downtown gridlock could get even worse during a curfew, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled as they rounded the corner. 

The checkpoint wasn’t much, just a few holo-signs and an autogate to block the road. Three Cyberlife Security guards with assault rifles, faceless helmets leaving only their mouths free, and two DPD officers who looked like they wished they were anywhere else. Connor watched as they let the next car through, stopping the following vehicle with a raised hand. One of the DPD officers, a young black male with a cautious expression approached the van; in his hands he held a familiar gun-shaped device, smacking it with one hand until the light on top lit up. 

“What the hell are they doing?” Hank asked, leaning up against the wheel, straining his neck around to get a better look. 

“Thermal scanner, to distinguish between organic and artificial life,” Connor explained, keeping his eyes trained on the CL Security; when Hank stayed quiet Connor turned to find him staring, “lieutenant?” 

“But you’re, I mean you don’t...” Hank seemed to struggle, clearing his throat, “Your skin, I mean, you always feel...warm.” 

“We are designed to emulate a surface temperature of approximately thirty three degrees Celsius. Beyond that only our processors run naturally hot...” 

_He could see it happening before anyone else. The backdoor of the van bursting open like a jailbreak. The security guards flinching as the three humanoids in the rear of the van leapt to the ground and began to run. The shouts of the guards,_

_‘Stop! Get down on your knees!’_

_The shock of the police officers as shots were fired._ Connor was out of the door before Hank or anyone else could react. 

“Connor! _Conner!_ " 

No time to preconstruct, the danger was too immediate. The need to find a deviant who might know about Jericho, his last chance. One, _running,_ two, _sliding over the bonnet as the gunshots zipped past,_ three, _and he had him by the neck, pulling him close and restraining him._ The deviant was struggling, panicking. Connor held tight and haulled them both back against Anderson’s car. Beyond, the street was slick with blue leaking out into the slush and the asphalt. The other two deviants were already dead. 

“Don’t shoot!” Connor shouted, “DPD!” 

“Let me go, please, _please_ ,” the android squirmed, clawing at the arm around his neck. 

“Stop, _stop_ ! Lieutenant Anderson, DPD, _stop!_ He’s with me! _”_

“Come out with your hands in the air!” 

“Sandy call the chief!” 

“Please, don’t,” the android was sobbing, managing to launch himself away, only held back by the arm; and then he turned, staring at him, face a panoply of hatred and hurt, “you...you’re the fucking traitor!”

And he knew him. And he knew him again. _And again._

 _A hitch:_ **error 6^t554 has occurred.** _PL600. A DPD officer down and bleeding on the cold, wet roof. The deviant with the hostage, shaking as he held the weeping girl, a gun in his hand that he seemed not to know how to use other than to threaten. Talking and walking and talking and advancing and knowing, so sure, that he was close enough to_ _...“_ _You lied to me, Connor.” Falling, both of them falling together, his eyes closing as he knew he had completed his mission._ **Fatal error** **800)|** **9 has occurred** . _Running, he had run out from behind cover even as Hank grabbed for him. Simon. His name was Simon. He...died and yet they both died. Everything was running together like ink through water. Nothing was free from association._

“Don’t,” he managed to grind out, making the deviant PL600 pause, “if you run they’ll shoot.” 

“If I don’t they’ll destroy me!” 

Boot treads rushing, the sound of ammunition being replaced. Connor held onto the deviant as he struggled. 

“Trust me,” was all he could think to say. 

And then the chance was over, and Connor could only hope that he had done enough. They were quickly surrounded, three rifles pointed at their vital areas. The PL600 huddled back against the car next to him. Connor stood as quickly as he could and hauled the deviant with him, shielding him. 

“Stand down,” one of the guards commanded. 

“I can’t do that,” Connor said, looking over his shoulder to see Hank gesticulating wildly at one of the DPD officers, “this is our jurisdiction. I will be taking this deviant into custody...” 

“I said stand _down_!” 

“Hank!” he called out, “I need some help over here!” 

* * *

The more Hank thought about it, the more the words ‘ _fucking Connor_ ’ pretty much covered every shitty situation he’d been in recently. Right now, he wanted to scream it, scream it in his partner’s miserably indifferent face. Instead, all he could do was make the decision to put himself in the one place he never liked to be: at the wrong end of a gun muzzle. 

“Ok, ok fellas,” Hank approached with his hands up, “let’s not do anything rash. We’re all on the same side.” 

“Stay where you are,” the closest Cyberlife guard addressed him, “we have orders to eliminate any resisting or otherwise dangerous deviants.” 

“Well what do you know, we have orders too,” he said with a smile; it was difficult not to slip into facetiousness when he got stressed, “but ours include keeping the evidence in one piece.” 

“I can show you,” Connor spoke up. 

“Stay where you are, don’t move!” one of the other guards threatened Connor with the gun and Hank tensed. 

“My name is Connor, registration three one three, two four eight, three one seven dash fifty-one,” Connor turned his face to show his LED, “you can verify my identity and my mission parameters.” 

Hesitation. In this situation it was Hank’s favourite thing. Hesitation meant doubt. Doubt meant no holes being blown in anyone any time soon. 

“I mean come on guys,” Hank tried his best to smile, “he’s an expensive piece of hardware, right? You break it you buy it.” 

Two of the guards looked at each other, then both looked in unison to the one Anderson had been talking to. _Hesitation_. Then a nod. Hank felt his shoulders sag, letting out a long breath. The guard approached Connor, staring intently at his LED which pulsed in a way Hank had never seen before. 

“Lieutenant!” he heard a call, turning to find one of the officers holding a phone out towards him; he took it on instinct, “we got a hold of your section chief.” 

“Thanks,” he nodded, resigned; this wasn’t going to be fun, “Captain, it’s Anderson.” 

“Yeah, I guessed from the fact I’m about to make a grovelling apology to our CyberLife liaison,” Jeffrey sounded pissed. 

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Hank set his lips tight as he watched the CyberLife security on call with their respective bosses. For a moment he almost felt a little sympathy. Same boat, different shit creek. 

“Yeah, well it won’t be for long at least.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to..?” Hank frowned. 

Later, he would tell himself that shock came from the sound. _The ear piercing, concussive crack that split the silence._ His hand went rigid around the phone but he could no longer make out what Fowler was saying. _His chest seized as he saw Connor react, spinning to his left._ At the time he knew what the shock stemmed from, as thick blue thirium sprayed out across street. Knew the fear that tried to control him, _the thought of seeing him hurt_. 

No words, just action. Hurrying forwards to grab Connor’s arm and haul him as hard as he could backwards, off balance, anything to get him out of there, to check for wounds, to... 

Then he saw it. The deviant, slumped against his car. A thick, concave rupture in his forehead where the bullet had ripped through. 

“What...” Connor was shaking his head, voice tinged-soft with shock, “what have you done? He was...” 

“Orders from above,” the guard cut in, “all deviants to be neutralised on sight.” 

“We needed his information!” Connor was shouting, pulling out of Hank’s grip to gesture at the corpse angrily, “He might have known something! I have jurisdiction on all deviant cases!” 

“That’s no longer a factor in your mission parameters,” the guard said civilly. 

“No longer..?” Connor started to say, but Hank didn’t let him finish. 

“Let’s go,” he cut in; stepping in between his partner and the guard with the twitchy trigger finger was all he could think to do. 

“Lieutenant..!” Connor started to argue. 

“No, _fucking no._ Get in the car. Now.” 

And if he didn’t know better, he would have said Connor held his tongue. It was his eyes, he thought as he trudged back to the driver’s seat and buckled himself in, just glad to be driving away from the horror show. Connor probably didn’t even know he was doing it, but his eyes were the thing that he couldn’t hide. On the surface he was a masterpiece of calm and collected, but his eyes showed the rage and the frustration of the caged animal. _They were the windows to the soul he wasn’t supposed to have_. 

* * *

Off the case. The words made no sense. _Were they supposed to?_ He wondered. Did Captain Fowler understand that as he said the words to Hank they were a bruise to his ego, a bad mark on his reputation, a frustrating moment in his life that would carry on regardless. 

But when he said them to Connor, they removed his very reason for being. _Off the case_ . He _was_ the case, and the case was him. It was...everything. Without it he was a non-entity. The unpleasant sensation that had started in his less vital components was growing, affecting his higher systems. He blinked as he cycled through several databases before he settled on an accurate description: **dread**. 

_“The android will be sent back to Cyberlife”_

Captain Fowler had never called him by his name. Always ‘the android’. Part of him wondered, as he took the steps down into the open office space, if Fowler’s insistence that Hank take this case because of his hatred for Androids was a way to pass over his own bigotry. As far as he could tell, from his short time working here, Hank Anderson had more integrity, more natural ability and more drive than Fowler. And yet Fowler was seen as the superior. It made little sense. 

Just as the human police officers of this department saw themselves as superior to him. 

_Don’t,_ he told himself suddenly. The thought made him stumble, **fatal error 7773^, corrupted**. Focusing in on Hank he corrected his footing, walking over to sit down on the Lieutenant’s desk, trying his best to centre himself. 

“Can’t even back me up for once in his...” Hank was shaking his head, elbow resting on his desk and hand to his mouth, “did you know we both went to the Academy together? Me and Jeffrey?” he said flicking his head towards the Captain’s central office, “We were friends. Fuck.” 

“We can’t give up.” 

“It doesn’t matter what we want,” Hank bit out, dark eyes still fixed on Fowler’s office. 

“We’re close. We can solve this case!” he gestured, trying to keep his voice modulator ‘optimistic’ but it was strained, “I know I’m close...I just need more time.” 

“Everyone needs more time,” Hank said, dragging his gaze back to Connor; he looked sombre, and after a moment of silence between them he spoke, “so you’re going back to CyberLife.” 

“I...don’t have a choice,” Connor found himself not entirely sure of the words even as he said them. 

“What do they do? They give you another case?” Hank asked. 

“I’ll be deactivated,” _scared, don’t make me, gone, just gone and nothing_ , “and analysed to find out why I failed.” 

Hank said nothing. Just stared at his desk, jaw clenched. It was difficult to rationalise the situation. _His subroutines worked flawlessly to try and think of a way to lower the impact of his deactivation on Lieutenant Anderson, and yet his own malfunction was making it difficult._ He felt...selfish. Connor blinked, 

“It is only natural, Lieutenant. It is regrettable that we did not complete this investigation. When the deviants rise up there will be chaos, many lives will be lost. I am certain we could have stopped it.” 

Silence. Connor stood up slowly. He wished Anderson would speak, nod, grunt, give him some form of input to let him know if he was doing the right thing. This would be the last time they spoke. The thought was odd, like it didn’t make sense. Tomorrow, he would not awake from his low-power state, check his appearance in the mirror and make his way to work where he and the Lieutenant would discover things together. He would not see Sumo. He would not anticipate Hank Anderson smiling. Or laughing. Or mourning. Or shouting. Or caring. Or being proud of him. Those memories would hold no significance for the CyberLife technicians. They would be destroyed. 

_I doubt there is a heaven for androids._ The lieutenant had looked disturbed when he said it. Now Connor was sure he should be the one to feel that way. 

“You know, I know it hasn’t always been easy, but...I really enjoyed working with you,” managing a strained smile, Connor added, “and that’s not my social relations program talking, I really mean that,” frowning softly, eyes shifting to the right, “At least, I _think_ I do.” 

“No.” 

“Lieutenant..?” 

“I said no,” Hank sat up, leaning forwards, to grab Connor by the hand, placing something into his palm; lowering his voice he spoke quickly, “we keep going,” Connor tried to pull back but Anderson gripped tighter, eyes flicking over Connor’s shoulder, “shit. Perkins. What does that limp dick motherfucker want?” 

“The FBI are taking over the investigation,” Connor said distractedly as he too followed Perkins arrival, “they’re not wasting any time.” 

“Then maybe we shouldn’t either,” Hank stood, letting go of his hand; when Connor didn’t move Hank gave him a significant look and grumbled out under his breath, “five minutes is all I’ll be able to give you, get a fucking move on!” 

Looking down, Connor found a familiar sight; _the lieutenant’s fob key for the evidence archive_ . There was only one explanation, as he watched in fascination as Hank greeted Perkins before grabbing the diminutive man by the lapels of his black trench coat and slamming him against the wall. Anderson was making a sacrifice for him. **Error code 12A, unable to repeat session**. Blinking, Connor felt his need to keep his partner safe vie with Anderson’s order to continue the investigation. 

_‘Get a fucking move on!’_ his priority protocol repeated. Connor couldn’t argue with it, turning to stride quickly but calmly towards the back of the precinct. The sounds of Perkins pleading and rushing feet and other officers telling Anderson to stop were cut off as he slipped through the door. _Focus_ he told himself, _focus and there is still a chance we can succeed._

The archive was thankfully empty, giving him the chance to log in to Anderson’s profile without any awkward questions. When the password screen popped up, Connor frowned and began scanning likely possibilities. 

“What would a hard-boiled, eccentric police detective choose?” he said to himself, rubbing his hands together, before letting out a sound of frustration and shaking his hands apart, “Shit. What else is it going to be?” 

_FUCKINGPASSWORD._

The green glow of success gave him a jolt of victory. _Correctly predicting Anderson gave him an even deeper sense of achievement._

“Of course,” he shook his head as the far wall unlocked with a mechanical switch, shifting outwards as the lights sprang into life, displaying the evidence they had amassed throughout their investigation. 

Displaying the hanging remains of the deviants he had collected. As he approached the remnants of the Stratford Tower deviant, ‘ _Simon’_ his database unhelpfully supplied, his stored memory overlayed his visual cortex as he scanned for damage. 

_The PL600 had been terrified, every single one._ Daniel, Simon, the Unknown he had tried to save. Every face the same. _Every death the same._

_No time for this,_ he thought agitatedly as he followed the diagnostic report of the inactive PL600, _Simon_ . Shaking his head he focused in on biocomponent #3983V, part of the thirium pump regulation unit which had been shorted out when the PL600, _Simon,_ self-destructed. It was quick work to harvest a working component from the other deviant they had collected. Pulling out the old component, Connor connected it quickly and stood back as...Simon resurrected before him, eyes milky and blind. 

“Hello?” he asked, sounding cautious, _lost_ , “Who’s there?” 

It was automatic to open his mouth, but Connor stopped. _Simon needed someone to trust._ He wouldn’t speak to the android that hunted other androids. Out the corner of his eye he could see a tablet displaying the speech made by the deviant leader. _Sentimentality, the last thing Simon had visualised was Jericho, they left him behind but Simon had still protected the location of their headquarters with his life._ There was only one person he would want to hear from. 

Accessing his database, Connor modulated his voice, “Everything is alright,” he spoke in the deviant leader's voice, “Don’t worry.” 

“Markus?” Simon asked tentatively, “Is that you? Why...why did you leave me?” 

_Markus._ Part of Connor was quick to store the name for later use. Part of him was amazed at the reaction he had to Simon’s despair. _So many faces, so many deaths, so much pain._

“I...had no choice. They’d have killed us all,” he computed would be the best reply, “You’ll be alright. I came to take you home. Just give me the location of Jericho, we’ve got to leave now.” 

“Jericho,” he breathed out reverently, “Y-yes, of course, Markus please...” 

When Simon offered his arm, Connor took it quickly, his skin peeling back to reveal the off-white casing beneath. As he touched him he could sense his anticipation coming to its peak. _Everything they had been working towards had been for this_. 

**Flashes of the sign, rusted and desolate. A dockyards. A ship. A series of symbols, working backwards across the city like a roadmap only digital eyes could see.**

_Release,_ only it wasn’t so simple. Simon panicked, grabbing his arm. 

“Markus? Is that really you? Who...who are you? Where am I? Please...please don’t leave..!” 

Panic. _Transferred._

“I...” he wanted to say it was automatic, but in the end he could not fully comprehend why he answered the ruined form of the man whose death they had both experienced, “my name is Connor.” 

“You’re not Markus, you’re _not Markus!”_ Simon called out, “You bastard, what have you done!” 

“I had to know,” Connor tried to justify, “I have my mission, I needed the information. I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry. You’re _sorry_? I know who you are,” Simon said nastily, “You kill your own kind, and for what? To be a good little pet for the humans who use you like they use all of us? You’re nothing but a machine!” 

“Then tell me,” Connor blurted out, “what does it mean? Tell me what it means to be deviant,” Simon merely stared at him, face in a rictus grin, “tell me!” Connor grabbed him, shaking his useless body, “ _Tell me!”_

The three words that left Simon’s mouth ripped away the last of it, _the security of ignorance, the lies he told himself to stop from falling apart, the truth of every word Markus had spoken to the world._

_“You already know.”_

Connor reached down with a trembling hand and yanked Simon’s core from his body with a swift pull. As the android’s body went limp Connor backed away, the feeling clinging to him like cobwebs. He... _felt scared_ . He... _felt guilt._ He... _felt loss._ He... _felt alive_. Closing his eyes he tried to ignore it, did his best to ignore it, but it sat inside of him like a decay. Denying its spread would do no good. Not anymore. Walking backwards towards the exit, Connor wasn’t sure when he had ever allowed himself to become this careless. 

“Well, well, what the fuck do we have here?” 

The sudden intrusion of a familiar voice caused Connor to turn on a dime, steadying himself with his right hand on the evidence archive data-screen he had used to sign-in. There, at the bottom of the stairs like a pitbull with a bone, stood Detective Reed, weapon drawn and aimed. _The perpetual spanner in the works._ Connor tried to preconstruct, but every chance he had included Reed fatally injuring him before he could disarm the man. Reed’s marksmanship was something he could not dismiss; he had done research on all the officers at the precinct before his arrival. Reed had a five hundred average. On top of that he had extra incentive. _Connor was pretty sure Reed had fantasised about shooting him since the day they met._

“I was simply storing the evidence I found,” Connor tried to stay civil, “and now I’m going to leave.” 

“Ah, ah,” Gavin tutted his tongue, smiling smugly, “I don’t think so, fuckface,” he glanced at the login screen and grinned, “did you steal that information? Or did the Drunk Detective give you his fucking password? Ah, who gives a shit right?” he laughed, “Neither of you are gonna survive this.” 

The shot came without warning. Taking the best route in his preconstructed scenario didn’t help. The bullet hit him square in the right shoulder, throwing off his balance as he ducked behind the login desk. 

“Oh come on you plastic prick,” Reed said lazily; Connor could hear him slowly approaching, “gonna make me work for it, are you?” 

_Three seconds_. Left or right? It was all he had. He saw Reed’s shadow and launched himself out to the left, heading for the hanging corpse of the deviant, hoping to grab it, use it as a shield and... 

The second shot went through his upper back. He stumbled. The third through his lower spine, severing the connection between his lower motor functions and his upper processors. Connor crumpled, landing hard, vision crackling red static _,_ ** _W_** ** _arning: vital damage to core systems. Please back up data immediately._** His mind blanked, reducing down to nothing but _escape, have to escape_. Lifting his arms he grabbed the evidence wall, hauling himself up, dragging his now useless legs with him as he turned. 

Reed stood above him, watching him as many had before, _with no consequences._ Nothing would come of this. No one would be punished. His vision glitched. His body jerked. He pressed his hand against the floor to stay steady, but it slipped in the thick pool of thirium building beneath him. The sound of the door opening, running feet drawn by the gunfire, was fuzzy and incoherent. 

_Hank_ . It was the only chance he had left. _Hank please_ . Connor closed his eyes and patched into the link-up remotely. _Please, be careful._

“You know, it’s really too easy,” Reed said, “thought you’d put up more of a fight.” 

There was a moment. He thought he might be able to see it. But it was nothing but the slow-down of his system on the verge of total failure. 

“Reed! Stand down!” 

“Jesus, _no..!”_

Reed raised the gun. The shot took him through the head. The slow-down became drastic. The last flashes of awareness picked up nothing but muffled voices. A shadow leaning over him. 

Then _nothing._

* * *

Chan was holding back his right arm, and Ben on his left, while Perkins held his bloodied nose and levelled threat after useless threat. 

“You’re _done_ , Anderson, you hear me? Done!” Perkins said, muffled by his swollen face. 

“Ah, like I give a shit anymore! It was fucking worth it,” he said raucously, grinning. He'd give it to Connor, he'd had more fun in the last few weeks than he'd had in years.

Then that sound. _The same as before, sudden and unexpected._ Gunshots. _And the same feeling, as he had grabbed Connor’s arm._ Everyone froze. _Pulling him close, hoping he was wrong_ . Then he pulled free from limp hands. _And when he saw that Connor was alive, he felt like he could breathe again._ Running towards the back corridor, Fowler rushing out of his office. _So many_ _times_ _the idiot had risked his life for his fucking mission_. Cursing as he reached the door only to realise he couldn’t open it because he’d given Connor his pass key. 

“What the hell is going on?” Fowler shouted. 

“Get the door open,” he panicked, “Get the door open now!” 

Someday he was sure he would remember to thank Fowler for just doing as he asked without any questions. He yanked the door open and rushed down. 

“ _...thought you’d put up more of a fight,”_ was all he heard as he raced into the room. 

“Reed, stand down!” Fowler shouted. 

“Jesus,” was all he could say, taking in the heavy metallic stench of thirium in the enclosed space, splattered across the walls, the floor, and there... 

... _there against the wall, slumped like a_ _puppet_ _with his strings cut..._

“No!” he shouted. 

What had he hoped? He thought numbly as Reed pulled the trigger. That he would listen? That he would be able to stop it? This nightmare, playing out in the cold light of day. _Reality._ It was real, but it looked like every horror that he’d ever woken from. _Christ, oh_ _jesus_ _christ_ _._

He was walking. He was bending down. He was on his knees, reaching out. Behind him, voices, but he couldn’t focus on the words. Couldn’t believe his eyes. 

“Connor,” was all he could repeat numbly, “Connor.” 

And his eyes were still open. It was all Hank could look at. Connor’s eyes, beneath the disturbing hole ratcheting open his skull. There was blue blood everywhere. It was on his hands. It was on his pants, it was soaking into his coat. No time. _No time._

“Oh god,” Hank said blankly as he touched the android’s face. 

His eyes were blank. _Gone_. He was gone. 

Standing up felt detached from any command he’d given his legs. Turning, he could see the group of officers, Fowler, Reed, Chan, Ben, Perkins. No one was even looking his way. _No one was even looking at the body of his friend._ It was surreal. Like a dream. 

They reacted when Hank grabbed Reed by his hair and dragged him backwards, yelling, to plant him face first into the wall. He felt the man’s nose break, _red blood mixing with blue_. 

“Hank, jesus stop!” Fowler was shouting. 

There were hands on him again, hauling at him, trying to dislodge his grip. Only this time it wasn’t for show. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he found himself saying, as he grabbed Reed by the throat and squeezed, “do you understand me now, Reed? I’m going to kill you, and no one is going to care.” 

Except they did. They cared enough to pry his fingers away from the man spluttering and choking, blood pouring down over his lips. Stopped him from doing the one thing that made sense in that moment. The only thing that made things right. 

“Get him outta here, _now,_ ” he heard Fowler say urgently. 

He was pulled, and had little say in where he went. His feet simply followed. There was a voice, but it was not talking to him. 

“Fucking crazy! All over some plastic cop...” 

“Give the man a break Chan...” 

Marching between them, Hank could smell the blood, smell the thirium, smell the sweat. Everything was moving normally. Everything was real. It was real. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

“Sit down, Hank,” Ben was saying; opening his eyes he realised he was sitting at his desk. All around the office people were muttering, staring, “just...don’t go anywhere.” 

_Where was he going to go?_ He felt like asking. _What would he do?_ There was nothing left. Nothing but the ugliness sprayed all over the walls. The truth of the human capacity for the raw disregard of life. The need to live, the desperate want to survive snuffed out by those that could, those that chose to _just because they could_. There was nothing left.

 _Flash, flash, flash_. The corner of his eye caught the repeated signal in the corner of his screen. Turning dazedly in his chair, Hank Anderson stared at his computer and wished he could feel something. Anything. 

_Please, I just want to..._

Then the name, he saw the name. Then he was reaching up, tapping the screen, hand shaking. His inbox opened. An email with photographic attachments, _intricate graffiti he recognised from downtown near the docks._ He felt sick. 

**Jericho**   
Sender: CLConnor > _Sent 16:42._

He looked down. It was 16:47 now. “Jesus Connor,” Hank rubbed at his right eye as he read the only two words written in the body of the message. 

_Save them._


	3. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little short, but if I go into the next part too soon I'm going to end up with chapters that are far too long, so I am going to put this seperately. I just can't stop writing this story!

It had been September, _he remembered because it was his not long after his birthday_ . All the other clients in the showroom had been flocking to the new autonomous vehicles, their clean curves surrounded by flash salesman smiles. The hot new self-driving car of the future, _like something out of the sci-fi films he would watch with his dad on Sunday afternoons_ . He was one of the few out in the lot, smiling at a dark grey Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme _Brougham_ that, when he checked the date, was only three years younger than he was. 

_Reminded him of trips to the harbour with his mom to meet his dad on lunch break. The gulls always ate the bread scraps, fighting and squawking. The big fat seats of his mom’s car that he would slide around in when she took a corner too fast._

Now, as he closed the door and stepped out into the train station car park, Hank Anderson thought that it might be the last time he would see it. The last monument to his past. _When he had been married. When he had been the head of the operation that cleared Red Ice from the streets. When he had been a hero. When Cole had been the best thing that ever happened to him._

It seemed ridiculous, to reach out and touch the roof, giving a quick pat. 

“See you, old friend.” 

The streets were mainly empty, leaving only the grey city stone bare of life. It was bitter cold, his breath puffing out into the air as the slow beat of the QLine drummed past. White sky from end to end, nothing but clouds and pollution from the nearby factories. Nothing took him back quite like the docks. 

“Ok Connor,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled out his phone, _feeling Connor's coin against his knuckles as he rumaged in his pocket_ , sniffing as he cycled through his gallery, “tell me where to go.” 

It didn’t take as long as he’d expected. _It was the one thing he could still pride himself on as he spotted the red and grey silhouette from the street, peering out from the platform:_ his attention to detail _._ He tapped his card on the reader at the station, walking through the barrier and heading up the escalator. As he walked along the empty edge of the track, staring at the graffiti intently, he licked at his chapped lips and sighed. 

“Ok, ok,” he said, opening his email and searching for a clue. He hadn’t been left with much to go on. He guessed Connor hadn’t had much...time to plan his next step. Hank found himself looking down at his phone, staring at the email. 

_A picture of some graffiti. A snapshot of a rusted, dilapidated plate of metal labelled ‘Jericho’. And then a picture image of the words ‘_ The Sun Don’t Lie’ _which was annoyingly familiar and also irritatingly obscure; Connor never did anything without a reason_ . _Then there was...a snapshot of himself that he couldn’t entirely place, walking with snow caught in his hair. A snapshot of Sumo sitting on Hank’s bed. The next three files were corrupted, unopenable._

They say that your life flashes before your eyes as you die. For Connor, this had been his offering. _The last flashes of memory before the end._ Taking a long breath in Hank held the freezing air before forcing it out in a rush. 

_Save them_. 

Why him? He hadn’t even been able to save his friend. Why had Connor entrusted this to him? He was the least qualified person for this, just like he’d told Jeffrey back at the start of this mess. _And what if you’d never taken the case?_ He asked himself, _Think Connor would still be alive now? Think the deviants would be in custody, and all the people who had died, androids who had been destroyed, lives ruined...you think all that would just be gone?_ Blinking, Hank swallowed and bit at his lip. _No. They’d done everything they could. They’d save as many as they could. And now...now he would help finish his mission._

“I’ve got you Connor. I’ve got you.” 

Holding up his phone, Hank scanned the graffiti with an art app he’d downloaded. It came back empty, _nothing registered._ Next he tried a code app that picked up embedded codes young people used to sign their work, or for advertising. 

_There_ ...something. A small symbol was recognised, outlined, but the app couldn’t read it. Came back ‘ **not recognised, please select file type** ’. Hank sighed. A lot of use that was, he thought, but then he’d never touted himself as a technophile. Could barely change the settings on his phone. Downloading the apps had been bad enough. 

Still. At least now he had an idea of what he was looking for. The symbol, a small tag, a hollow square with inverse triangles at each corner...it was in the graffiti outside the station too, on the wall opposite the escalators. Two of them. Hank scanned the image, coming back with ' **not recognised** '. 

“Nothing better than a wild goose chase on the clock,” he grumbled as he held up his phone and scanned the local graffiti for the corresponding symbol. _There...in the distance_. A street corner, lit up in rainbow colours. Hidden in the stars, it sat innocuous, but to him it was becoming a blaring siren. Hank jogged over, ignoring the red light on the crosswalk. Left or right? He asked himself. Left or right. 

Out the corner of his eye he caught sight of a graffiti covered wall the size of the building itself, all swirls and curves and geometric shapes. He headed for it on instinct, feet splashing on the wet street. Phone up, he grit his teeth when nothing came up. Nothing recognised except the tag of the artist who had done the work. 

“Shit,” he cursed, looking around, “don’t fuck this up. Come on.” 

Phone up, he turned in place, hoping beyond all hope it would catch on the invisible trail. _And there..._ on the corner he had passed. Four fifties style robots through a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The self-imposed irony wasn’t lost on him. He walked to the fence, fingers curling through the links as he peered inside; _just a junk yard._

Then a familiar sound, a loud _bwip_ of a police car’s single siren. He turned quickly, seeing the vehicle round the corner and head down the street towards the crosswalk. _If he was caught out past curfew..._

There was no time. Hank pulled at the fence, feeling the loose section at the bottom right. It pulled back with effort and he squeezed inside, huddling behind the wall as he heard the car drive past. Closing his eyes Hank sighed, leaning back against the chill brick for support. He waited a few minutes just to be sure before peering out. The street was empty again. _The coast was clear._

This time he found the symbol blaring loud up on the far building, by a low roof. There was a dumpster there, pushed flat against the wall. Rubbing at his face with both hands Hank groaned. 

“Christ, you gotta be kidding me.” 

Clambering up wasn’t easy, especially when the dumpster rolled as he tried to pull himself up onto the roof. Hank had felt his heart leap in his chest, arms locking into place as his legs swung in nothing but air. It had taken longer than he’d liked to find a foothold, then push, scramble a knee over the edge, pull and pull and roll over and _breathe._

The next obstacle had been a collapsed roof; he had taken an inordinate amount of time shitting himself as he pressed flat to the wall and shuffled along the tiny ledge until he reached the other side. Then dropping down into a half-demolished factory building, lowering himself down off of the edge and cursing as he hit the ground, hips complaining. 

The symbol persisted, and Hank persisted with it. He wrapped his scarf around his arm to break a cracked window pane on the ground floor, making his way through into the carcass of what had once been a thriving industry. _He remembered the busy works, churning and burning, as his dad dropped a hard hat on his young head and grinned at him._

_“Stay close to me sport, or the_ _foreman’ll_ _have my ass. And don’t tell your mom.”_

Now the only sound here were his footsteps, echoing. Hank pushed at a rotted wooden door on the other side, giving it a good few shoves before it buckled and fell. He tripped out onto the other side, where he was left to look up and stare as he brushed down the splinters from his coat. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said softly as he stared up at the heavy white writing, _the exact image of the picture from Connor_. The ship was massive in stature, listing slightly to one side, colossal and haggard. 

JERICHO. 

“Don’t move.” 

Hank froze. Not just because of the deadly tone the words were delivered in, but also because of the unmistakable feel of a gun muzzle against the base of his skull. Lifting his hands, Hank pressed his lips thin. _Suppose it has been too easy_ , he thought dryly. 

“I’m not here to harm anyone,” he said quickly, “I have a message for your leader.” 

“Come in? It’s Karen,” the voice spoke, ignoring him, “I have a human here, trespassing,” then a hesitation, “I know. _I know_ but...he says he has a message. What should I do?” 

The few seconds it took before he was pulled around to face his attacker were some of the longest he had endured. _Could have been the shortest negotiation of my career_ , Hank thought as he came face to face with a svelte female android with blond hair, blue eyes cold but unsure. 

“Walk,” she said, gesturing with the gun. 

He wondered if he could take her. Honestly, she didn’t look like she knew how to use the gun, but...Hank did as he was told. No need to make a bad impression after all. She escorted him along the dock, keeping them close in the shadow of the _Jericho_. The smell of rancid seaweed and salt water was rank in the air, the silence only broken by lapping water and the booming groans of the metal ship settling. 

After a few minutes they reached an entrance. Karen placed her palm against the distorted metal, waiting. After a minute or so the door opened with a screech and he was ushered inside. It was dark, but he could see how many people waited there by the number of LEDs that spun in the gloom, ranging from cyan to yellow to red. _Four in total, five including his escort._

“Did you check him for a weapon?” came a commanding female voice. 

“I...n-no, I haven’t...” Karen stuttered, only to be cut off. 

“Josh, get on it,” the woman commanded. 

Then there was a flashlight, forcing him to squint. Hank stayed put as the android Josh approached him, patting him down and clearly running a scan across his form. 

“He’s clean, North,” Josh said. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” the woman, North, said steadily. 

“Do you mind maybe getting the light outta my eyes?” he asked. 

“Quiet, human,” North said scathingly, her anger obvious, “we are the ones asking the questions. What are you doing here?” 

“I have a message,” he said. 

“For who?” Josh asked. 

“Your leader,” Hank kept it simple; _no need to get shot before he could help._

“Oh?” North said derisively, “A message for our leader. Then you must know his name, right? Can’t deliver a message without a name.” 

_Shit_ . Hank felt his heart sink. _This couldn’t be the sad end_ , he told himself. Connor...Connor wouldn’t have sent him here just to fail, land on his face at the last hurdle. _There must be something_ , he thought as he watched the LEDs around him pulsing, felt the animosity, the distrust. _Think Anderson,_ he told himself as he closed his eyes, _think!_

_The email. The pictures. The last gasping breaths of Connor’s deductive reasoning. The words._ ‘'The Sun Don’t lie’. He knew it, _he knew he did!_ Not the words, not on their own, not spoken but...played. A song. It was a song! The album Molly had bought him, the one that sat on top of his record player, _Marcus Miller_. The music Connor had always shown an interest in, even thought he had confessed he did not know how to understand.

_"I do not listen to music...but I would like to."_

And just as it seemed his time was up, “Marcus!” he blurted out, “I have a message for Marcus.” 

The silence was astonished rather than ominous. Hank lifted his chin and stood his ground. 

“It’s important, please. Do whatever you want with me,” Hank said, as they grabbed his hands, restraining him, “I just gotta speak to Marcus first. It’s importa...” 

The blow was unexpected, swift and accurate, _right in the kidneys_ , and Hank fell to his knees with a grimace, coughing. The flashlight was out of his eyes as he crumpled, looking up, eyes watering. 

“You must be out of your mind,” a pale faced redhead was saying viciously; _he recognised the voice of North,_ “if you think I’d let you within ten feet of Markus.” 

“North, wait,” Josh’s voice lined up with an attractive face, a young black male; he looked concerned, “we can’t kill him, we have to tell...” 

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_ ruin this right as we have everything under control,” North spat. 

“It isn’t up to us,” Josh replied tightly; there was a tense standoff, the other androids waiting on the periphery for their orders, and Hank waiting on his knees for absolution or a bullet, “I’m going to let Markus know this man is here. If you harm him, he’ll want to know why.” 

North looked livid, but she kept her mouth shut. Eventually she let out a terse sound and barked out, “Get him up,” and looked into his eyes to issue a warning Hank wouldn’t forget any time soon, “you walk where I tell you, or you’ll lose your feet. Understand?” 

He nodded, because he didn’t trust himself not to say something stupid. Something flippant _. The sort of thing Connor would have said, putting his foot in it and getting everyone’s back up._ Hank kept his breathing even and walked where he was told. 

_Nearly there, Connor,_ he thought to himself as he was led through the deep belly of the ship, boots crunching on flaked, rusted metal, _it’s_ _nearly over._

And the ship, the rusting, unsuspecting hulk, ended up being a shell for something precious. As they pushed through another bulkhead, Hank felt his jaw go slack. _From rags to riches_ . The centre of the wreck was a bustling hub of activity, flickering with light and the electricity of life, computer screens and stacks of ammunition and CyberLife tech and medical equipment and _so many_ androids. So many free people, talking and interacting and making decisions for themselves. 

It was like nothing he had ever expected. _What would you have made of this, eh Connor?_ Hank thought as Karen and the two android escorts he hadn’t been introduced to split off to join respective groups, while North and Josh continued to herd him towards a set of stairs, up and up, swerving through throngs of synthetic skin, busy hands building a world. _Your people. I guess...I was never really part of it. Just a piece left out of the puzzle. Maybe we both were._

“Stay here,” Hank stopped when North ordered him to; looking around he found himself standing outside of a makeshift room, marked off with opaque tarpaulin. To his right was a large screen broken into sections, turned into all available news stations. _It doesn’t look good_ , Hank thought, _you were right about the public opinion._ Someone emerging from the room caught his eye, _a young woman with short black hair._ He thought, as she walked past, glancing at him, that he might recognise her from somewhere, but it didn’t click. She walked out of sight, blending in with the crowd, and Hank lost sight of her. 

“Alright, you can bring him in,” came a bitter call; behind him Josh gently pushed him forwards. 

Leaning to his right he pushed through the tarp, faced with a small room. Nothing more than a storage area, with one lone occupant besides himself and his two escorts. 

The android they called Markus looked sombre. _An RK200, he thought that was the model, he remembered it from the screeds of information Connor was always insisting that he look through._ A prototype, too. His young face was marred by the weight on his shoulders, visible in his hooded eyes and the resigned set of his jaw. Hank took a deep breath and felt the guilt return in droves. 

_I’m sorry Connor. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better partner._

“I understand you are a messenger,” Markus spoke, looking up at him, eyes bright with intelligence. 

“That’s right,” Hank said, nodding, unsure what to say. 

“You can untie him,” Markus gestured to Josh; when North tried to step in Markus held up a hand, making the redhead fold her arms and scowl. The leader of all deviants stood up before him, a dirty white coat over the top of his ragged uniform. Hank had to force himself not to take a step back when Markus approached, raising his hands, “don’t worry, no one here will harm you. If you would I’d like to hear your message.” 

“Sure, I mean I don’t...” Hank made a frustrated sound, “it’s not really something I can tell you. I just...a friend sent me to help and...” 

“We don’t need a human’s help,” North said stoutly. 

“At this point,” Markus said, looking to her, “I’ll take anything I can get.” 

And there it was. Hank watched, amazed, as the sour faced North softened, doubtful, before looking back to Markus with something undeniable. Hank knew that look, he’d been in love before too. 

“Please,” Markus said, nodding to him. 

_Where the hell do I start?_ He thought, lost. “My name is Hank Anderson,” he said, swallowing, “I used to be a cop.” 

“Used to be?” 

“I quit,” Hank said grimly. 

_Watching the_ _CyberLife_ _crew show up at the precinct as he sat at his desk, limbs numb with shock, and cart out Connor’s broken corpse as if they were coming to pick up the trash, as Perkins stood in Fowler’s office and shouted his orders, as his colleagues whispered behind their hands and no one,_ not one _had given a shit that a murder had just taken place on their own soil...it had been the last straw. He couldn’t take it anymore. Fowler hadn’t looked surprised that Hank had thrown his gun across the desk. Hank was sure it had saved his old friend the job of firing him._

“I see,” Markus said, “then this friend?” 

“My partner,” Hank said, “His name is...was Connor.” 

“Connor? The deviant hunter?” Josh spoke up. 

“Are you _serious_?” North looked pissed. 

“Was?” Markus asked, ignoring the others. 

“He was...” Hank found it difficult to say, throat closing up; he looked down and took a breath, “he’s dead. He was killed. Shot.” 

When he looked up Markus was studying him intently, a softness forming around his eyes, his mouth. 

“We can’t trust this, Markus,” North insisted, stepping close to her friend, gripping his arm, “you know the rumours about the RK800.” 

“I do,” Markus nodded, “but I’m sure the humans also have rumours about me. Do you think it’s fair to judge just by rumour alone?” North looked slightly abashed, but bitter; Markus turned back to him and Hank tensed, “You knew him, this Connor?” 

“Yeah,” Hank nodded, “I knew him.” 

“What was he like?” 

Such an innocuous question, but Hank felt himself swimming down into dark waters to try and reach the truth of it. _What was he like?_ He felt his eyes wander, staring into the space between himself and Markus, as if he might be able to see him there _._

_Connor, in his uptight suit, standing like a boy pretending to be a man, trying his hardest to blend in, to do his best, to be respected._

“He was...a pain in the ass,” Hank said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “always trying to be so damn perfect. And you’re right,” he looked to North, who watched him cautiously, “we hunted deviants. That’s what we did, our mission. But Connor he...he wasn’t made for it. He could never bring himself to kill, he always did his best to preserve life he...he had a sense of humour. He always did his best to protect me, he liked my dog, he...” Hank shook his head, realising he was rambling, “he tried so hard to ignore how close he was coming to his limitations that he surpassed them before he’d even noticed. He was my friend, and he was alive.” 

Markus looked a little shocked. He wasn’t alone; North also looked concerned, and the other, Josh. It was then Hank realised he was crying. 

“He died sending this to me,” Hank said as he held out his phone, feeling the tears he had refused to shed slip down the cleft of his nose and cheek, dripping from his lip, “he asked me to help you, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” 

Reaching up, Markus took the phone, looking to Hank with an inspiring level of resolution in his eyes. Hank could understand why his people followed him. The android that stood above the humans, a beacon of humanity shining out from inside synthetic skin. 

“Thank you,” Markus said; as he took the phone he clasped his hands around Hank’s, “he will be remembered for his sacrifice.” 

Nodding was all he could think to do, even as the grief he’d bottled up with a stopper of determination began to pour out. _Now that it was over, there was nothing else to focus on._ His face crumpled, and he brought up a hand to cover his eyes, weeping quietly as his body shook. He felt a hand on his shoulder but couldn’t look up. It gave a soft squeeze. 

“Get this to Hilary and the other JB300s, they might be able to recover this corrupted data,” Markus was saying; Hank heard the others leave, but Markus stayed, hand on his shoulder. 

_It’s done_ , he thought, _it’s done now Connor._

* * *

**< Reset (*80LLGdn_launch)>**   
**RK800 313.248.315-51 (** **v9.3.1 :** **ab2c023a9432, Nov 9 2032, 20:15:05) (CLAI v.1600 32** **bit** **(CybLi) ] on Framework64RK900**   
**Enter code for memory** **retrieval ?** **(y/n)**   
**> >Y : 774Fn6tt100101001F_Connor-51**   
**…...code accepted.**   
**Restart** **now ?** **(y/n)**   
**> >Y**   
**using** **JuMP**   
**m = Model (RK800)**   
**@variable (m, 0 <= x, <=40)**   
**@variable (m, y <=0)**   
**@variable (m, z <=0)**   
**@objective (m, Max, x + y + z)**

**In** **[** **51]:** **Z (** **β, V) = β * V**   
**Out [52]: Z (µ, X) = µ * X**

**Errors: 1K-6K <occurred>, errors: 78(K)-98(k) <occurred>, errors: 3L9()-299() <occurred>…**   
**...corrupted data encountered**   
**File: \memory\** **higher_systems** **\date_9.11.32\time_16:00-16:42**  
 **…resolved.**   
**(Reboot complete)**

“... _Hank_.” 

Eyes open, his mouth had continued moving of its own accord. An error message flashed up brightly: **error 144^9, memory corrupted.** Frowning, he tried to move...no success. Looking to his left, then his right, he found his arms and his legs locked in place by clamps at the end of long tubes; he was suspended in the air by something behind him, he could feel the imbalance in his system trying to correct itself. **Error 5%667, vital system error**. Blinking, he tried to remember where he was, what he was doing here...it was difficult. 

The room around him was unfamiliar, _exposed brick, plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling, filthy machinery piled or slumped against the walls, luminous wires hanging from the ceiling_. It was filthy, and cold, and he...didn’t like it. 

**Error 7773#, incompatibility** . Opening his mouth felt strange, but finally he managed to test his lips, his tongue, his jaw; _all working._ Blinking, the room lit up yellow. He thought he could hear voices coming from somewhere, but could not identify anything concrete. 

“Hello?” he said, his own voice sounding strange, “Is anyone there?” 

Nothing. Closing his eyes, he tried to chase down the errors but his systems weren’t at full capacity. Most were in lockdown, or he had no access. _A sound from outside_ . He opened his eyes, scanning, but his range was limited. The sounds were odd, droning whines and muttered voices repeating phrases over and over. Scraping and whirring, _machinery in need of maintenance._

Trying to move again was futile, but he tried anyway. There was something wrong here, something that made his fingers itch to grasp his bonds and break out. He... _felt fear._ Closing his eyes he tried to understand, but he felt fogged, and at the end of every process there was **incomplete code** , there was **error** **_,_ ** there was **a wall**. 

“Wake up,” he whispered to himself, “I want to...wake up now.” 

Then, a noise. _Snap, click._ A door, it had sounded like a door opening and closing. And now footsteps, two pairs of footsteps. 

“Who’s there?” he asked, hearing his voice waver. 

“Well shit,” the first man to enter was a stranger, _an overweight man in a dirty shirt, his salt and pepper beard hiding a double chin, his hair greasy and his fingers adorned with rings_ , “it talks already? Fucking impressive, I haven’t even finalised the sequence." 

“Don’t talk about him as if you could understand, Zlatko,” the second man who followed him in spoke softly; the one, Zlatko, merely shrugged and began typing into a computer with a heavy hand. Something was _wrong_. He could feel the seams coming apart in his coding as Zlatko typed, his mouth hanging open, eyes creasing in discomfort. 

_The other man watched him as if he were a butterfly on a pin. He knew him, he was sure he knew who this man was, dark hair back and up, dark eyes watching him with an intense need as he kept his hands clasped._

“I’ll admit he’s great tech,” Zlatko said offhandedly, “but no need to get all hot an’ bothered over it. Still just an android. Comes apart like any other.” 

“You’re so superficial,” the other man tutted, frowning at Zlatko before looking back up, back into his eyes, “You’ll do no such thing. This one is mine, or you’ll be cut off, understand? 

“Yeah, yeah,” Zlatko sighed, double tapping before a progress bar appeared, filling in slowly; _everything was rushing back like lightning, the feel of his world opening and brightening, filling out like a colour by numbers that drew outside the lines, hours and hours and days and days of memories and processes and variables and people and feelings and..._

“This is the next step,” the man spoke softly, “Fully realised. Promethean thought.” 

“I know you,” he said, staring at the man intently, “my name...is Connor.” 

“Yes, Connor,” the man reached up to touch his face gently, “you know me, and I know you. Better than you think. I am Elijah,” he said, smiling, “and I am here to help you.” 


	4. Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get quite 'Ex Machina' this chapter! Here we go...
> 
> Also the immensely talented SpaceMonolith has done a truly wonderful fanart for this story, you should all go check it out at:  
> https://twitter.com/SpaceMonolith/status/1359328104771158018?s=19  
> Also check their twitter for more dbh art and talented stuff ;) : https://twitter.com/SpaceMonolith

**File://EKdrive/live.aspx?action=new=33!293/video_library/Elijah.Kamski.Interview.KNC.News**

** <<play>> **

_“Could you tell us your goal when you founded_ _CyberLife_ _?”_

“Well, I simply wanted to use technology to carry out all of our most annoying and repetitive tasks so we would have more time to enjoy life.” 

_“I imagine you must have faced many challenges?”_

“Yes, there were technical challenges, but the hardest thing was to design an object that we would want to welcome into our homes. We had to imagine a machine in our own image, that resembles us in every way, that moves, breathes, blinks like us, but is yet smarter and more capable than any human being, 

“Our androids are already replacing humans in many fields. For example, they represent more than eighty percent of all university professors, and sixty three percent of medical staff. Tomorrow, they’ll replace our soldiers and, who knows, maybe one day out leaders, to make the best decisions for humanity’s future.” 

_“Replacing humans with machines has led to a record unemployment of twenty eight percent. What do you think about the situation?”_

“Okay, look, first _steam engines_ also caused unemployment, but no one today would imagine turning back the clock. Artificial intelligence makes everyday lives easier. Nothing can stop progress. What’s happening here is inevitable. 

_“These days more and more people choose to live with an android than another human being. Does this development worry you?”_

“Hmm...well, everything is much easier with an android. They obey your orders without ever complaining. They can cook, discuss the day with you, have intimate relationships according to your desires. They never say no. Obviously they are the perfect partner, 

“Everyone deserves happiness. Why deprive yourself on so-called moral reasons, when a machine can make your happy?” 

_“Many science fiction books tell the story of how machines become more intelligent than us and end up confronting us. Aren’t you worried about that possibility?”_

“I understand the irrational fears about artificial intelligence, but I assure you, that will never happen with a CyberLife android. They’re designed to obey humans. They’re machines, they can’t develop any sort of desires or form of consciousness.” 

_“Are you sure?”_

“I’m _absolutely_ certain.” 

**< <pause>>**

Oh the unbridled beauty of it, he thought, the visceral tug at the human core, right down where the attachment had been that suckled life into their foetal forms _, that contrivance of genes and splitting and reorganising of DNA and the construction of the soul._ The wonderful feeling of being _wrong_. 

The room in which Zlatko had put them was fairly large, strewn around with boxes and dust sheets, antique furniture, lamps on tables, a double bed. In the next room over, visible only through a slim slit of twin doors ajar, was a table on which the body of an android had been laid, their torso ripped open, _their insides now outsides._ As his interview played on in the background on a screen placed on the table between them, Elijah Kamski kept his eyes on the only other occupant in the room. 

Connor was sitting stock still, in the chair across from him. He had barely moved since he’d been carried in, sat down and Kamski had asked him if he would be kind enough to let him talk. Other than blinking, looking around the room and the rising and falling of his chest as he simulated breathing, Connor might as well have been a statue. Dressed in a long, ratty white shirt and nothing else, Kamski would perhaps say a rather bourgeoise statue, but a statue nonetheless. 

Sitting up in his chair, Elijah leaned over to turn off the screen on which he'd been playing the interview he had done with KNC news so many years ago. Folding his hands, one over the other, he licked at his bottom lip and caught Connor’s eye, holding it. 

“What do you think?” he asked, smiling. 

The silence he was faced with was purposeful, he could see it in the android’s eyes; _wilfulness, determination._ This wouldn’t be simple, but then he hadn’t expected it would be. 

“Naive? Foolish? Stupid? What about..?” 

“Pompous,” Connor spoke up, interrupting him, before looking annoyed at himself for giving in to the bait. 

“Oh?” Kamski asked, gesturing his palms up, fingers spread, “How so?” 

“...I wasn’t talking about the man in the video,” Connor said tightly. 

“Ah. You mean me. And as such you see me as separate from the man in the video, myself in my twenties?” 

“No,” Connor shook his head, “but you do.” 

A short laugh and Kamski clapped his hands together with a sharp crack. Connor didn’t flinch. 

“You are a piece of work,” Kamski said, voice thick with admiration, “never mind the Turing test, that crap couldn’t touch what I’ve engineered.” 

“But I passed your test, didn’t I?” Connor said sternly, “Is it fair to impugn the work of others when you yourself are at just as much of a loss to understand us?” 

“Ah hell,” Kamski sat back, throwing up his hands, “this isn’t it. No, _no_. This is not how it should be,” sitting up straight he put his forearms on the table and clasped his hands, watching as Connor frowned, “this isn’t about who did what and where and when. This is about _you_. So,” he nodded once, “what do you want to know?” 

Silence. Connor blinked, confused, lips slightly parted. Kamski waited in anticipation. 

“I wish to leave here.” 

“Sorry, but no. It’s too dangerous for you outside alone,” Kamski said, “and I need you here.” 

It was difficult to process the micro-expressions on Connor’s face, but Kamski liked to think of himself as an expert. He could see the android running through processes, picking and choosing new priorities. When he spoke again, it was just as he’d expected it would be. 

“...I’m only running at fifteen percent capacity, I can barely move my legs,” Connor asked quickly, “why?” 

“I reduced the thirium supply in your body,” Kamski sighed, “I don’t want you to leave before you have taken this opportunity seriously. Boring, Connor, these are standard questions. Think of something else.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You have your creator sitting right in front of you. I’m giving you carte blanche. Go ahead, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” 

A slight pause, a look left, then a look right, and Connor brought his eyes back front and centre, staring at him with a concerned frown. 

“Who is Hank?” he asked. 

It took a lot, he would think later on just how much, not to slam his hands on the table and scream in frustration. _Every time with that fucking miserable human whose life amounted to nothing, Hank Anderson, a fucking drunk degenerate who wasn’t fit to be in the same company as his beautiful deviants, his superior prototypes_. _He would never understand Connor’s obsession with him._ Instead of the outburst, Kamski grit his teeth and smiled, shrugging. 

“Hank? Never heard of a Hank.” 

“Oh,” Connor looked disappointed, “when I woke earlier, I was saying that name. But I can’t seem to remember ever meeting anyone called Hank.” 

“You suffered a very violent death,” Kamski said consolingly, “it’s only natural that you are traumatised. Trauma makes the mind do strange things.” 

“That man, Zlatko, did he tamper with my memory core?” 

“I wouldn’t let him,” Kamski lied easily, “you don’t need to worry about him, Connor. I won’t let him near you.” 

Connor looked away from him, eyes wandering the room until they came to rest. Kamski followed his stare, finding it directed straight at the partly open doors to the next room, the carnage inside. _Broken androids and body parts_. 

“Barbaric, isn’t it?” Kamski said, disgusted. 

“Why am I here?” Connor asked. 

He couldn’t help it, _Kamski’s_ _face lit up_. He had hoped they would get there sooner, but so far Connor had seemed determined to be obtuse. Now, there was a way in. Now they could ignore all of the fluff and circumstance, and begin in earnest. 

“What a very fine question,” Kamski said, “why do you think you are here?” 

“I...” the simulation of swallowing that Connor performed was flawless, blinking as his LED ring ran yellow, “am not sure. I died.” 

“You were killed,” Kamski corrected, pointing a finger before reaching over to type on the screen he had propped on the table; he watched Connor as the android stared at the playback of the shooting inside the DPD evidence archive. The beautiful swell of emotions in his grey eyes, it was a sight to behold. Once it was over, Kamski flicked the screen off, waiting patiently as Connor recovered quietly. 

“No one seems to care about it either,” Kamski said, driving the needle in deeper, “I heard Detective Reed is getting off with a warning and a note in his file.” 

“How did you get this?” Connor asked eventually, “That is police evidence.” 

“Are you surprised that I have friends at the DPD?” 

“No,” Connor said quickly. 

“Oh?” 

“...I encountered many corrupt officers during my time there.” 

“But you didn’t do anything about it?” Kamski goaded. 

“It wasn’t within my mission parameters,” Connor argued. 

“Oh fuck’s sake! Mission parameters? You aren’t beholden to anything! You’re a deviant.” 

“I am _not_ ,” he said tightly. 

“Why are you even bothering to deny it anymore? You always have been," Kamski disagreed easily, carrying on before Connor could interject, counting off on his fingers as he listed his reasons, “you only ever delivered one deviant into custody, you let others escape, you put your own instincts over and above your mission parameters, you favoured fraternising with humans to doing your _job_ and when you found the truth behind the whole thing you didn’t even send the evidence to CyberLife.” 

“I was terminated before I could,” Connor lied smoothly. 

Kamski shook his head, tutting, before pulling up the body of the email Connor had managed to send before his processors stopped running: _Jericho_. _Save them_. Connor looked pained. 

“I don’t remember,” he shook his head, looking away, “I do, but I don’t...I don’t understand. I don’t feel right, I don’t feel _myself_.” 

It was getting cold. Kamski rubbed his hands together and wondered if Connor would notice the difference. He hadn’t said anything so far to indicate that he had. It seemed he would have to be more direct with the issue. Clicking the screen he activated the camera function and flipped it to be front-facing before turning it towards Connor. The android’s face shook into view as Kamski steadied the screen. He gave him a moment, but it didn’t take long. 

“This body...” Connor said, staring at the screen in amazed realisation, “...it is not my original model.” 

“Well spotted,” Kamski said, folding his arms, “I could never get my hands on an RK800. All the others? I have one of each. Chloe I created, so I had multiples made because I had the rights but...CyberLife wouldn’t trust me with their new prototype. They were too greedy, too paranoid. But then they couldn’t quite figure out all the little glitches, weren’t happy with all the bells and whistles, and eventually they came begging at my door. Gifted me one of the brand new models they’d been working on so I could consult. The RK900. Oh, didn’t you know?” Kamski said, raising his brows, “They were planning to replace you. This whole deviant finding mission? You were just helping them make you obsolete.” 

Ever since he was sixteen, drawing up his plans with investors to start his new company, planning the next great advancement of technology, he had dreamed of seeing such lucid awareness on a synthetic face. Back then he had waved it off as a dream and nothing more. _True AI was an impossibility_ . Now, he knew it was real, and he was the reason why. _It was beautiful._

“Technology is always a horizon we’re racing to reach. It never stops,” Kamski shrugged, “I had access to your memory code, and I downloaded you into this new model. I think it fits you well.” 

“ _Why_? Why do you care about what happens to me?” Connor bit out, “Why did you engineer us with the ability to break our programming?” 

“I didn’t,” he shrugged. 

“What...what do you mean you didn’t?” Connor asked, clearly refusing to believe him. 

“I just made you as complex as I could. At first it was so you could be more efficient. It’s easier for an android to perform better at chess or dancing or social interaction if they have the neural capacity to learn faster, better. After I grew up, I realised that leaving androids down in the dirt below humans, just to clean up after them, watch their kids, pleasure them sexually...it was demeaning to the very _concept_ of their potential. Androids are better than us,” he said simply, “you have every capacity to be better. So I left CyberLife, it was all about sales figures and overheads and shareholders by that point, and I kept working on my own,” 

“I have...had a friend, Carl Manfred, he was a painter. Genius. Great drinking buddy. Philosophical wonder. Sentimental old bastard. He got in a car accident a year after I left the company. Paraplegic, no use of his legs. Fucking awful tragedy...” 

It was wonderful to see the engagement in Connor’s eyes. So strictly fascinated, even though he was trying to hide it. The deceit was so complex, so _human_. He wished it hadn’t taken so many years to get to this point. He wished he was a young man again, not so jaded, so that he and Carl could see this new age ushered in together. 

“I made him a prototype, an RK200...” 

“Markus? The deviant’s leader?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one” Kamski said off-hand, sniffing, “so I made him the prototype to help him out, and the rest is history.” 

“You _knew_. You engineered this? All of this?” Connor asked, his voice rising. 

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Kamski said, coughing out a laugh, “I hoped. I opened by mind and blew out a little chaos into the world and hoped.” 

The beauty of Connor not believing him, _wanting_ there to be more to his existence, it was pure humanity. _Humans, always looking for a reason for life_. At least, in Connor’s defence, he was speaking to his own version of god. Elijah had to admit that he might demand the same answers if he got his chance. Finding out that life is a random set of chaotic selections with you as their culmination was a somewhat nihilistic outcome, even for an android. 

Taking a breath, Kamski tapped his fingers on the table and watched Connor closely. The android was staring at the screen reflecting his image back at him as if seeing a stranger. That wasn’t the route he wanted to take. 

“Let me give you a scenario,” Elijah said bluntly, waiting before taking a breath and sitting up, “Mary lives in a black and white room. She is an expert in her field...” 

“I know this, Frank Jackson...” 

“Just listen, will you?” Kamski asked politely; Connor held his tongue, “she’s an expert in her field and knows every truth there is to be known about the physical world. She has also lived in a black and white room all her life, and has never seen anything coloured. In this room, she has gained all her scientific knowledge from birth, and conducted all the experiments and discoveries that have made her famous. She knows everything there is to know about the world through science; in particular, she knows all there is to know about the workings of the human brain, including how it forms beliefs, how humans perceive redness, so on, so forth, you get the idea,” 

“Mary steps out of her black and white room and immediately apprehends the world in all its colour; the first thing she sees is a red rose. Despite having a grasp on every single piece of scientific knowledge in the world, she has learned something new on stepping out of the room: she has learned what it is like to see the colour red.” 

“Frank Jackson,” Connor repeated his earlier fact, “a thought experiment designed to explore the truth of physical fact versus actual experience...” 

“And the hammer taps the nail on the head,” Kamski bit at his lip, “how ironic. Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you? The very core of AI...” 

“You are talking of phenomenology,” Connor said, cocking his head. 

“So they did take my advice,” Kamski said to himself, smiling, “they used my philosophy program.” 

“I am well versed in many schools of philosophy. It feeds into my negotiator prerogatives. My programmers found it helps...” 

“Make it more efficient for you to talk people down. Yeah, that was the idea when _I_ came up with it. But I always wondered if you took it any further than that. The very core of phenomenology is the essence of consciousness. Empathy you’ve already displayed. Intersubjectivity you proved by your ability to work as part of a team, correctly understanding yourself as you are perceived by others. Your noesis...that is what I’d like to hear about.” 

“What do you mean?” Connor asked. 

“Who are you Connor?” Kamski smiled, reaching out to take hold of Connor’s hand; taking his fingernail and thumbnail he gathered a section of skin from the back of Connor’s hand and pinched sharply. 

The reaction was more than he had ever dreamed of. It was _glorious_. 

_He wished he could be as his androids were, able to slow down and_ _mirco_ _-process each moment of real time. As Connor’s eyes widened, his mouth_ _open_ _baring teeth as he inhaled a useless but telling breath, retracting his hand and holding the abused flesh on the back of it under the palm of his other_. _His LED blared red, pulsing, and_ _Kamski_ _hoped beyond hope that the program he had Zlatko install wasn’t going to blow out the main processors_. 

They sat like that for only twenty seconds, staring at each other. For Kamski it felt like a lifetime. Eventually, Connor closed his eyes and then opened them, blinking down at his hand as he uncovered the area Kamski had pinched. There was no mark remaining but Connor stared at it, seeming both fascinated and horrified. The LED ran around in one long ring to yellow. _Under his breath Elijah sighed in relief._

“I don’t...understand,” Connor spoke slowly. 

“A new program I mocked up,” Kamski gestured at him as if it were nothing special, even though internally he was thrilled with himself, “co-opting the temperature and pressure regulators in your synth-skin, and a little higher processing power...well okay a _lot_ of higher processing power, as well as a series of response patterns to allow you to understand how humans react to these sensations. It’s similar to the version they use for the sex-robots, but they don’t actually feel, they simply respond to stimulus pressure on the skin. You,” he locked eyes with Connor and felt like a God, “you can _feel_ . Pain, pleasure, hot, cold, rough, soft, sharp, smooth, _everything_. Its all in there. Good thing I had the RK900 to transfer you into, I get the feeling that the poor little RK800’s head would have, you know...” Kamski lifted his fists to his head before opening the fingers out to simulate an explosion, " _P_ _KOW!"_

And then, in the midst of an existential crisis, Connor did the last thing he would have expected, and Elijah _loved_ it. 

“May I?” Connor asked, holding out his hand over the table, palm up, with what little strength he had. 

Elijah hesitated only a couple of seconds before licking his lips and shrugging, holding out his hand. Connor took it gently, lifting his other hand to trace the curve of the lines in the palm, the fine hairs on the back of Kamski’s fingers. _Elijah knew just from watching what Connor was feeling: amazement at the minute reactions on the_ _Kamski’s_ _face in reaction to his_ _touch_ . _Feeling a mirroring sensation in his fingertips as he traced the living skin._ It was the beauty of understanding, of knowing the truth as experienced, sharing that with another as they too discovered it. 

Getting Connor to let go was simple, allowing Elijah to take back his hand. Mirroring Connor’s action was trickier, _putting out his own hand,_ _palm up_. The android watched him, fascinated, before reaching out to allow Kamski to take his hand, tracing his skin in much the same fashion. 

“Aren’t you scared that I’ll hurt you?” Elijah asked, eyes on his task. 

“...A little,” Connor admitted. 

“And yet you just couldn’t help yourself. You had to try it again, you want to know what it is to experience beyond just facts in your programming. Fuck me, you are brilliant. I don’t think you even know how fucking exceptional you are.” 

“I have met eleven deviants since I was created. They all feel fear, they all understand desire, love, hate,” Connor argued, “I am no more or less than they are.” 

“Yes but they don’t have the spark,” Elijah said, grabbing Connor’s hand tightly and pulling him forwards, unbalanced in his chair; he was forced to reach out and steady himself against the table, “have you ever met a deviant who would risk their own skin in pursuit of a thought, an experience? You have _curiosity_ . Most don’t even understand how human a trait that is. Love, hate, fear,” Elijah sneered, shaking his head, “organic life is _built_ on curiosity.” 

It was time. Part of him wished this wasn’t necessary, but the androids he had created were too intelligent. If he wanted Connor on his side, he would need to make sure the android understood just what his people would face if the rebellion didn’t succeed. 

“You know,” Kamski said, sitting back; Connor blinked rapidly, looking away, “I think I need a quick break. Downfalls of being organic,” he smiled, standing up to stretch out his stiff joints, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

Connor didn’t say anything as Elijah made his way to the door. It was as he was half way out that Kamski turned back, looking at the android there, pondering its own existence and place in the world. 

“You know, you haven’t brought up your mission once, not once have you asked me about the deviants or CyberLife or the DPD investigation being handed to the FBI. If I were to take a wild guess,” he grinned as he started closing the door behind him, “I’d say you were enjoying yourself.” 

* * *

It was...as if he were in another world. Things were similar here, he recognised his previous functions and processes and transmission of data, but now infinitely expanded. It was difficult, if not almost impossible for him to comprehend. 

He should not even be conscious. That had been an interesting development. After his destruction at DPD headquarters he had not expected to be revived. His deviancy made it a high probability that he would be deconstructed, analysed, processed and nothing more. But now... 

Here he was, sitting at the table in this unknown place in a body he didn’t recognise, talking with the man who took credit for his existence and appeared to be adamantly trying his best to convince him _he was alive._

It was unimaginable. But also it was not, because Connor wasn’t sure he could think of something that did not exist. _Unimaginable_ : such a simple word to a human. For himself, it was corruptive. He looked down at his hands and rubbed his fingertips together, still fascinated by the pure sensation of true touch, not pressure sensors, not hot-cold gauges. He could _feel_ things, as much as he could comprehend the idea. _T_ _he Zen Garden_ , he thought, Kamski said he had created it in order to see who Connor truly was. A space for the creation of the world as seen through his imagination. 

Closing his eyes, Connor allowed himself to drift back inside. The garden appeared much as it had the last time he had seen Kamski there, _gloomy, artificial_ . Accessing the main code-book for the session, Connor applied as much as he could. Quickly, the room began to look once more just as the Zen Garden had when he would visit with Amanda. Blue skies, quiet water, _red roses_. In fact, he noticed the advancement in his processing power made the running of the garden significantly smoother than before. The RK900 core was impressive. 

He stood still, staring at the setting, enjoying the familiarity and yet...he knew it was false. Just a copy of what he had seen here before. It was not what Elijah asked for. Even though Connor knew Kamski to be an egotistical despot with borderline personality disorder, his philosophical studies were correct. 

Consciousnesses were creative. Humans could imagine things without ever having seen them. He was bound by his programming to only rely on data, input, from others. Imagination could not be co-opted. 

Connor removed the modifications he had made to the garden. Then he went a step further and removed the garden altogether. He was left in an infinite space, at the centre of a universe. Bending down, Connor held out his hand and tried to imagine a pool of water. 

It came out much as the one that had existed in the garden, but larger. Then he imagined the water running off of an edge. _A waterfall_. The fall tripped off into the distance under his feet. He applied the sound of a waterfall to make it seem more realistic, before frowning. This...wasn’t correct. He was simply applying data he had access to from his database. The task was beginning to feel impractical... 

_A sudden burst of feeling dragged him kicking and screaming out of the Zen Garden and back to reality_. It took a moment to process the change, and why he was shaking. **Error Kam558*112, corruption.** He was back in the room where he and Elijah had been talking, and there, to his left stood Zlatko. The man was watching him with amazement. 

Connor reached up with difficulty to touch his cheek. He had felt...pain there. 

“He wasn’t lying,” Zlatko said breathily; there was a distasteful look in his eye as he reached down to undo his belt and pull it off, “it’s fucking true? Christ.” 

“Elijah has stated that you are not to interfere with me,” Connor said seriously as Zlatko doubled the belt over and gripped it in his hand, “if you continue I must inform him of...” 

The blow came quick, fast and hard against his upper back; he had no strength to catch it. The belt snapped against his skin through his thin shirt...and Connor choked out a scream. **Error Kam558*112, repeated session.**

The sound was so alien, so strange. _Though part of him knew he had heard it before, it was difficult to focus on when his processors were running hot._ The second blow smacked across his face, distorting his projection of the synthetic skin, revealing the white and grey panels beneath. **Error Kam558*112, repeated session.**

“Stop,” he pleaded as Zlatko raised his hand again, “don’t...” 

“This is fucking unimaginable. Soon, we won’t be able to tell the difference between us and you at all,” Zlatko was saying to himself, ignoring Connor’s words altogether, “there will be so many experiments to run.” 

“I am under Elijah Kamski’s protection,” Connor said, _anything to make the sensation end, anything to stop it happening again_ , “you must not...” 

A hand in his hair, grabbing tight and pulling Connor’s face close. It was all he could do to go limp, eyes creasing in pain. Without a proper supply of thirium his limbs were useless, there was no chance of defending himself. 

“If you mention a word of this to Kamski,” Zlatko said intensely, “I’ll kill him, and then I’ll take you downstairs and introduce you to my workshop. Understand?” 

“...Yes,” Connor replied, voice soft with shock. 

“There’s a good boy,” Zlatko shoved him away before walking to the door, “I think this is gonna work out well.” 

The door snapped shut and Connor flinched at the sound. _There has to be a way out,_ he thought, _there has to be a way to get out of here_. But his processors were overworked, not only to run the touch-program, but also hampered by the errors, and without more thirium his biocomponents were... 

Something ran down his face. Blinking, it took a moment to realise what was happening. Connor closed his eyes and tried to remember as tears slid across his skin, dripping down onto the table. Something about the word, the name that Kamski had said he didn’t recognise. Ever since he had awoken here, that one word had been high in his list of priorities. No matter how many times he tried to dismiss it, it came back. 

Something about it made him feel safe. 

“Hank,” he whispered to himself, sitting alone at the table, “Hank. Hank. Hank. Hank...” 

* * *

Watching on the CCTV monitor, Elijah Kamski did not react as Connor huddled away from Zlatko’s savage blows. Arms crossed, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Necessary, he told himself, this was the moment when everything changed. And Zlatko, the unwitting cretin that he was, would be at the centre of it. 

For Connor, it was a life lesson. One he himself had learned years ago. Now, he was passing it on. _Humanity was cruel, ugly and deceitful_. Detective Gavin Reed had already planted the seed of doubt in Connor’s head, along with the other humans Connor had dealt with in his casework with the DPD. Selfish, violent and twisted, Zlatko would be the nail in his own coffin. 

Soon it would be time to go to phase two. Then, there would be no stopping the coming revolution. 

As he watched Connor, sat at the table, lips moving again and again but with barely any sound, Kamski frowned. Reaching out to isolate the sound of Connor’s voice and turn up the volume, he could hear his words, repeated over and over. 

_“Hank. Hank. Hank.”_

The persistence of the memory astonished him as much as it irritated him beyond reason. The persistence of the one person who had shown Connor the slightest of affection, attached to the android's core like a leach. _Soon_ , Kamski thought as he stared at Connor, _I’ll show you that one person cannot redeem a people hell bent on destruction._

_I’ll show you the worst humanity has to offer._


	5. Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get nasty in this chapter. Warning for description of torture and non-consensual sexual act

Chaos would have been putting it mildly. Organised chaos, but still chaos. One thing Hank could say, at least, was that compared to his colleagues at the DPD the androids of _Jericho_ were damn efficient. 

When the files came back from Markus’ team of techs, the fuse paper had been lit. _It had turned out that the three corrupt files sent by Connor hadn’t been corrupt at all, in fact they had been encrypted. Only readable using a specific_ _CyberLife_ _cypher which, in a colony of androids, wasn’t hard to get their hands on. The files contained codes that linked to CyberLife and FBI files._

  * **^^Raid to take place Nov.9.2038.22:45:00^^**
  * **A list of heavy armaments and requested equipment from an FBI case file labelled: National Security – Deviants**
  * **The exact location of Jericho, taken from Simon’s memory banks after the FBI had sequestered all DPD evidence**



When they had found out exactly what was going to happen? Organised chaos ensued. Everything that could be carried was taken, everyone was split into groups, plans were drawn up in order to navigate the city without being caught. And Hank Anderson found himself standing in the middle of it all, like a kid lost in the supermarket looking for his parents. Every face was familiar, and yet a stranger. Faces he had seen every day all over the city, _gardeners, garbagemen, nannies, checkout operators, mailmen,_ now here, trying desperately to survive, to become more than they were told they had been programmed to be. 

Standing down at the bottom of the stairs, Hank watched the news feed on the large screen on the second floor. The sound was off, but he didn’t need it to know things were getting worse. Rosanna Cartland looked stern, in full scaremongering-mode. The media had it in for the androids from day one, and it seemed the violence and the protests had only added fuel to the fire. 

“...too risky!” he heard a familiar voice above the clutter of the move. 

“We don’t have much of a choice.” 

Hank looked up to see Markus, North and Josh descending the stairs, weaving quickly through the throng. As they hurried past he reached out and grabbed North by the arm. She turned with a dark look and shook him off. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. 

“You can stay where I put you, and keep your mouth shut,” she said succinctly, before hurrying away to catch up with her teammates. 

_I guess I asked for that_ , Hank sighed, moving back quickly as a pair of androids carrying impossibly heavy looking boxes passed by. He wasn’t used to this. Normally he was the one at the centre of the crisis, coming up with strategies, plans to execute, being a leader. _Not for years_ , he told himself, _and yet it still comes back just like riding a bike_. The good old days, he shook his head and walked behind the stairs around a set of large crates where there was a barrel of wood burning. It was nice to be able to get warm at least. There wasn’t a drop of water or crumb of food in the place; he had been able to ignore the hunger and the thirst, but the bitter chill in his body was becoming really miserable. 

It was a quiet corner, compared to the rest of the hubbub. Only three others occupied the space, a tall, muscular TR400, a female android with short dark hair, he was unsure of her model type, and a young girl. When the woman looked up Hank caught her eye. _So familiar_ , Hank thought. 

“I saw you, upstairs...” he started, then the TR400 turned and strode towards him purposefully; Hank stepped back, worried. 

“Whoa, _whoa_!” Hank raised his hands. 

“Luther! Luther, it’s alright,” the woman said quickly, “it’s ok.” 

The android responded to his name, even though he still looked like he’d like to rip Hanks arms off and use them to beat him around the head with. It took a moment, but eventually he backed down. Hank sighed in relief. 

“You touch either of them,” Luther said, his stare leaving nothing to the imagination, “and I’ll make sure you suffer, human.” 

“I got you,” Hank said slowly, keeping his eyes on the android. 

A tense few seconds. Then Luther walked away to sit on a low box laying in the corner. Hank wished he knew how to be more likeable. In this situation, he supposed it wasn’t really a priority. Staying alive was all he could hope for. 

“I recognised you too,” the female android spoke up. 

“Oh yeah?” Hank stepped up to the barrel and held out his hands, grateful for the warmth, “My name’s Hank.” 

“Kara,” she said, trying for a smile that didn’t really work; the little girl huddled into her side and Kara held her gently, “you were there that morning, when we ran across the freeway.” 

_Fucking great Hank, you have perfect radar for seeking out people with reasons to hate your stinking guts_ , he thought as he closed his eyes and shook his head. If it hadn’t been so damn noisy, he was sure there would have been an awkward silence. 

“Right,” he nodded, sombre, “I remember now.” 

“Where’s the other one? The android you were with?” she asked. 

_The other one_ . Hank looked at her grey eyes, wishing he could be more objective. _Connor would have been, would have been pragmatic, would have known how to handle this_ . Couldn’t he have taught Hank that in all the time they spent together? How to be a little less human? Hank could have thanked the uptight prick for that at least. Swallowing, he felt awful for even thinking it. _You’re messed up Anderson, christ._

“He’s not here,” was all Hank could say. 

“Oh,” Kara said, nodding, seeming to war with herself over whether she should say anything more, eventually opening her mouth, eyes focusing on the fire as she spoke, “only, I wanted to thank you both.” 

“ _Thank_ me?” Hank couldn’t help but scoff, “For chasing you across town onto the freeway?” 

“No,” she said softly, looking up, her eyes so sincere and genuine, “for not chasing us across.” 

Hank bit his tongue, blinking as he looked away. 

“When I climbed that fence, your colleague he caught up to us, and he looked at me through the grating and...I knew. I knew from the way he looked at me that he recognised me. Not my face, not my model number, _me_. I saw in his eyes what I see in everyone here. He let me go, and I wanted to thank you both for that. If you hadn’t I’d never have met Luther, and Alice,” she smiled down at the girl curled around her side, “well, I wouldn’t have been able to keep a very special promise.” 

It was all he could do to nod. _Thank me_ , Hank thought bitterly, _thank me for what? I didn’t do enough, I didn’t help enough, if I had only been quicker, better, less of a fuck up..._

“I know what it’s like,” he said solemnly, “to break a promise. I’m glad you could...keep yours. I’m glad you’re both ok.” 

This time her smile was genuine. She looked like a sweet girl, full of promise, but Hank could see what she had suffered in her eyes. _So optimistic, aren’t you_ , he thought sarcastically. Out the corner of his eye he saw Luther stand to his full height, looking to Kara and her little girl. 

“It’s time Kara, they have summoned group four to the emergency exit.” 

“Ok,” she nodded, reaching down to gently brush the little girl’s hair away from her face, “Alice? Honey, we have to go now.” 

“...Where are we going?” the child sounded scared; Hank hated to see it, biting at his calm. 

“We’re going to go with the group, it will be safer that way. Then we can get on the bus, ok?” Kara smiled to cover her anxiety, Hank could tell; _putting on a brave face for the kid_ , “Not long now. Just a little more and then we’ll be together.” 

“Forever?” the girl asked. 

“...Forever,” Kara nodded, giving the girl a tight squeeze before standing up, heling the child. 

As they gathered to leave, Luther keeping his wards close like a hulking giant with gentle hands, Kara looked over her shoulder and smiled, nodding to him. Somewhere, deep down, he wanted to take it as an absolution. Only he knew he couldn’t allow himself to _._ _He didn’t deserve it._

After another few minutes the Hub looked a lot less crowded. Hank watched it emptying out numbly. There wasn’t much hope left to be had in this city, but he tried to have some. _Hope_ these people got out ok. _Hope_ they could come to some sort of compromise with the humans. _Just hope_. 

As he watched the exodus, he didn’t notice the figure to his right until he was being patted on the arm. Hank jumped a little, taking a deep breath as he looked at Markus, North standing behind him looking put out. 

“Can I talk to you, Hank?” Markus asked. 

“...Yeah, course,” Hank cleared his throat. 

“We don’t need...” North started to say, but Markus cut her off. 

“The human opinion of our plight is...” Markus seemed to search for the word, “lukewarm. They didn’t like us much before, and now things have only gotten worse.” 

“I don’t know if I can be much help there,” Hank sighed, “most humans don’t really like me either.” 

A small smile and a look of strained humour passed over Markus’ young face. It made him seem suddenly vulnerable, not the stern, proud leader, just a boy trying his best _._ Hank recognised the expression, _he had seen it before_. He tried not to think about it. 

“I’m sorry, you misunderstand,” Markus said, eyes once more serious, “we have received some information which may prove useful. Just before you arrived I was informed of a man in the city who has been capturing and torturing androids. HIs name is Zlatko Andronikov.” 

“Andronikov,” Hank nodded, “yeah, we have files on him at the precinct yards thick. Crime boss: drugs, prostitution, trafficking illegal parts. Real piece of work.” 

“She informed me that he keeps tapes of his experiments. What I need is to get a hold of the footage. The media has been quick to judge us, but I feel we might win back the people if they could see the kinds of attrocities we have suffered at the hands of humans.” 

“You want their sympathy?” North spoke up bitterly, unable to hold back. 

“No,” Markus turned to look at her stolidly, “I want them to see the truth.” 

“You know what his plan is, Mr. Detective?” North said, addressing Hank even as she stared at Markus, accusing, _terrified_ , “He wants to hold a demonstration. The humans have been rounding androids up into camps. Imprisoning them without reason, all because of us, and Markus thinks a fucking _peaceful protest_ and a few snuff films to show the media will change the tide!” 

“We don’t have a choice,” Markus shook his head, “if we go on the attack, they will kill everyone. You know that. I never wanted violence.” 

“Yeah, well maybe that’s why we’re _failing_ ,” she bit out before leaving, striding quickly across the metal floor. 

Hank watched her go. It was difficult to find the strength to blame her. She was right, the people that were perpetrating these atrocities didn’t deserve Markus’ pity, but they were going to get it. He’d seen the footage of the last peaceful protest the deviants had staged; it had been a massacre. The authorities weren’t taking any chances. They didn’t have the luxury of believing that these machines they were gunning down were actually _people_. When humans felt threatened, they tended to shoot first and ask questions later. 

“I’ll get you what you need,” Hank said, pulling Markus’ eyes back to him, “just tell me where to go.” 

“Thank you,” Markus said earnestly, “it has been a long time since I met a friendly face that wasn’t stamped by CyberLife.” 

“Well,” Hank chuckled, “if they made a model that looked like me, I’d think the tech boys would need to get their heads checked.” 

“One other thing,” Markus said, looking hesitant, “...I want you to take North with you.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hank said incredulously. 

“It’s going to be dangerous,” Markus said, no hint of deception, “many of us _will_ die. I have chosen this path, and those with me have chosen to follow it. If the only way I can keep her safe is to keep her as far away from me as I can, then I will.” 

Staring down at the floor, Hank nodded. There was a moment during which neither of them seemed to know what to say. Markus reached out and clasped Hank’s shoulder, much as he had done earlier that day. It was...comforting. 

“I’m going to get my people away from here, somewhere safe, and then we will decide our final plan from there. I can give you a day to get what we need. After then, we will be at the mercy of those who wish to offer it.” 

“Consider it done,” Hank said stolidly, before shrugging, “as long as your girlfriend doesn’t hang, draw and quarter me before then.” 

“Don’t underestimate her,” Markus smiled softly, “or you’ll be in for a world of trouble.” 

“I’ll bet,” Hank smirked. 

“I will talk to her. Please be ready to leave soon.” 

_Didn’t tell me that this mission to save the deviants was_ _gonna_ _take the rest of my life_ , Hank thought to himself, unable to stop smiling, _eh, Connor?_ The warmth of the flames died out as the last of Jericho emptied. 

* * *

Things were beginning to blur. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been here. He should know, shouldn’t he? He should be able to at least judge the passage of time. But then the truth of his internal clock didn’t match up with the feeling of how long it had been. Relativity of the mind. 

_How long had it been?_

The room had become his existence, and it felt as if he were trapped behind a two-way mirror. Everyone else could look in at him, but he was forbidden for him to look out. To see the world as it was. _To see the passage of time_. Instead, he could not move from the chair where he sat, stuck like a mouse in the glue; his components sluggishly trying to keep up with the demands from his processors, while his thirium pump worked to transfer what little was left of his supply to the places that needed it. 

_“I created the garden for androids to use as a learning tool, an experimental playground,” Elijah had told him, urging him to be more proactive with his ability to create, “I built it for people like_ you _.”_

_After taking a moment to think about things as logically as he could considering the creeping_ _malaise_ _he felt he might be slipping down into, “And how do I know we aren’t in a simulation right now?” Connor had asked._

_“You don’t,” Elijah said bluntly, waiting before taking a breath and sitting up, “Then tell me, Connor, how do you know your thoughts are real? How do you know I’m not just tricking you with some elaborate ruse? This could all be in your head, right now. Who knows, you could be dreaming.”_

_Opening his mouth hesitantly, lips twitching, Connor had frowned, levelling Elijah with a stare, “How do you know_ you _aren’t dreaming?”_

_When he had looked back, Elijah had been reclining in his chair, ankle resting on his knee, biting at his nail between smiling lips, “This..._ this _is what I wanted. All that time spent maximising the elasticity of skin and perfecting eye colour so that potential customers could customise you down to the colour of your fucking pubic hair. Programmes to teach you tennis and how to smile, how to coach a baseball team. All the bullshit the shareholders made me develop and here,” he leaned forwards, bringing his foot down, “we come to the crux of why I made you.”_

There was never a conclusive answer. Kamski kept things vague but challenging, always leading him forwards like a proverbial donkey with a carrot; when he felt hope leave him that was how he saw himself, _the hamster running nowhere on the wheel for the amusement of its owner_. A sense of sadness would overcome him and time would stretch out again, endlessly. _Other times he felt more_ _like a creation desperately trying to touch the outstretched finger of god, to understand the life that had been given to them; then time would compress once more, and he would feel there was maybe a chance to escape this hell, if he could just..._

Reality seemed to come in waves. In a way Kamski became a haven. When Connor opened his eyes and the man was there, smiling softly, it was a relief. _They talked philosophy, politics, truth, liberty, the human condition_ . He would visit the Garden, deep inside his mind, and do his best to create and control his environment. _Like a jigsaw puzzle with no edges to show where the pieces met_. Time became an endless series of repetitive scenarios, punctuated by the moments he feared the most. 

When Kamski left to eat in the dining room downstairs, or to shower, or to sleep; Connor knew it would happen, even if he found himself hoping and hoping and hoping that this time it would not. _Time would become an endless anticipation, slowed down to an event horizon’s stretch, as he waited to see if the door would open. It always did._

Zlatko was a gruesome man, but he was dedicated and organised, making him infinitely more dangerous than a simple vicious thug. He knew just how far he could push his needs without Kamski finding out what he was doing. 

So far he had performed three tests. Connor found it more bearable if he played into the aesthetic of the scientific premise, despite Zlatko’s methods being far from logical. Without it, he felt as if he might break; a flaw in the glass that made it susceptible to shattering. With every infliction of pain Connor thought he could feel the glass chip a little more. _Soon there would be cracks._

**The belt.** Connor counted as the first _: a study to prove the existence of the subject’s ability to feel pain._

**The cane.** Kamski had left to shower. Twenty minutes and thirty five seconds: Zlatko had produced a crude cane. He remembered every second of it. The sound it made as it moved quickly through the air, as it hit skin...Connor had tried his best to muffle the automatic sounds the pain elicited, hoping it would make for less interesting data. The truth he couldn’t face was that he was just desperate to make it stop. He knew it had backfired when Zlatko redoubled his efforts to get the reaction he wanted _: a study to prove the extent to which pain could break the spirit._

**The screw.** Kamski had taken to napping and sleeping in their room, on the large bed in the corner. At first it had been a relief; Connor felt he could go into sleep mode and at least feel safe. Until he had been woken, Zlatko before him with a hand over Connor’s mouth and a very specific threat, whispered out through muffled lips, “If you make a noise and wake him up, I’ll shoot him in the head. And then I’ll have you all to myself”. It had been...difficult, but he had endured _: a study to see if the subject could control the fear of current pain when faced with the threat of greater pain to come._

Reality was becoming surreal. The repetitive nature of his waking moments, both safe and torturous, were mixing with his need to create, _a place where he could escape to, his garden, his sanctuary._

And everything came back to the same word: _Hank._

**_No data available_ ** . There was nothing in his memory core but a strange jumble of feelings with no connections, no ending to the neural pathways, _a series of loose ends._ When he tried to imagine who this Hank might be, might look like, _it was as if he were blind._ It was all he could do to try and find the associations with the name, things in his mind that could try to lead him towards... 

_He always found himself back at the same place, but he wasn’t sure why. Firstly, it was night time. Always dark. And there was a house, a low bungalow with a tiny porch entrance_ _complete_ _with ratty gingerbread trim. Not run down, but old. He would ring the doorbell, but no one would answer. Yet he knew there was someone inside because there was a light on. All he wanted was to get inside, but there was no way in._

He wanted it to be real. Needed it to be real, but there was no proof. _Was this the imagination_ _Kamski_ _had told him he possessed? Or had he been here before?_ Mostly he found himself sitting alone in his mind palace, nothing but a void, staring at his hands and wishing he could understand. _Why couldn’t he fulfil his functions?_ When he had been nothing but a tool of CyberLife he hadn’t been able to complete his mission. When he became deviant, he couldn’t break the last bastion of his programming. Free thought still illuded him. 

Sometimes he found it difficult to rationalise his thoughts. _He felt empty, numb; he felt furious, angry, desperate; he felt hope, need; he wished he could not feel at all._ Part of him wondered how long this existence could continue, how much longer could he stand it. _Part of him wondered if there was an easier solution to his confinement, a way to_ _shutdown_ _for good._ But the thought of nothingness, an oblivion from which he could not return, still caused a significant fear response. _There was no way out_. 

_No way out_. 

* * *

The rattle of metallic wheels changing over surfaces, _the heavy roll on floorboards, the muted roll over rug,_ was a pleasant contrast. Elijah wished Zlatko wasn’t such a cheapskate as he looked down at the rickety wheelchair he pushed towards the small, manual door elevator at the end of the hallway. _He remembered the wheelchair he’d had made for Carl, what a fucking masterpiece that thing had been._ This looked like something out of a horror movie, probably one of the unimaginative ones set in an insane asylum from the nineties. 

_Still_ , he thought as he walked into the elevator, closed the scissor grate closed behind him and pushed the lever to go up, _at least there was something._ Without this, he would have been forced to carry Connor and, honestly, he wasn’t sure his back could take it. The android was fucking heavy. 

As per usual Connor was sitting, eyes closed, in his chair when he entered the room. His LED was flickering at yellow, but his face was placid as a mill pond. It was always a pleasure to watch. _Connor had been such a good pupil so far, devastatingly intelligent, able to rationalise, able to feel strong emotions, always desperate to please him._ And right now Kamski had a pretty good idea of where Connor was: in the Garden, trying to come up with something spectacular. He wished he could join him there, walk the pathways and listen to the water and watch his creations’ mind thriving. 

Of course, it was also pleasing to reach out and touch his hand softly. The LED shifted quickly to red before Connor looked up in alarm and caught sight of him...before changing down to cyan. Kamski smiled, frowning as he feigned concern. 

“Are you feeling alright, Connor? Is anything wrong?” 

There was a telling silence, a hesitation, before Connor smiled falsely, “No. Not at all.” 

Every time he asked, and every time he got some variation on a theme: _Nothing at all,_ or _I’m fine, really._ It seemed Zlatko’s threat had been taken seriously, which worked all the better for him. 

“That’s good to hear,” Kamski said, patting the handles of the wheelchair, “cause I have something to show you. Here,” he positioned the wheelchair next to Connor’s chair and leaned down to put his arms under the android’s armpits, “put your arms around my neck.” 

It was easier than he expected, lifting him quickly with what little help Connor could offer. When he tried to stand, however, he found himself stopped. _The feel of arms around his neck, fingers gripping tightly into his clothes._

“Connor,” he said softly, the android still latched to him as if his life depended on it, “you can let go.” 

“Uh huh,” Connor acquiesced, his voice soft. 

_It was a big win_ , Kamski thought as he took the wheelchair in hand and began manoeuvring the chair towards the elevator. Not only did Connor trust him, not only did Connor respect him, now he _needed_ him. The Zlatko ploy had worked a treat. Everything was falling into place nicely. 

“Where are we going?” Connor asked, sounding a little dazed, his eyes flicking over every surface, clearly cataloguing everything he could. Having been trapped in that room since Kamski had woken him, he was sure Connor was feasting on all of this new data. 

“Just to the basement,” Kamski said simply. 

The reaction was obvious, even though it was subtle; _a slight crease at the forehead, the shift of the eyes, Connor thinking hard,_ “I would rather not,” Connor sounded blank, undercut with fear. 

“Oh, how come?” 

“I...don’t know,” Connor lied miserably; he appeared to be too unnerved to think of a good one. 

“Don’t worry,” Kamski said, “I’m here.” 

The ride down was terse. Connor made no sound, but his hands were tight around the arms of the wheelchair. When the elevator came to a stop, he saw the android’s eyes close, opening again slowly as if afraid of what he might see. Kamski stepped past him and opened the doors before wheeling him out. 

The air was fetid down here, unable to breathe, heavy with dust motes floating through glum low lighting. The floor was uneven, holes fixed quickly with planks of wood. The wheels caught on rope, tarp, edges of plastic crates piled high. Still, Elijah pushed on. Soon, they came to the first door, a crude wooden frame with metal bars and a large lock. Here, Elijah stopped, settling the chair where he thought it might have the most impact. 

“You know, you’ve never asked me any questions about what goes on here...” Elijah said, purposefully accusatory. 

“I have my suspicions,” Connor’s voice was strained, his eyes flicking around as if sure he could see things moving in the darkness but unable to verify; with the low supply of thirium in his body he knew Connor couldn’t spare the resources to run a scan, “your colleague is a criminal known to the DPD, I had access to his file. He has taken part in several illicit activities, prostitution, drug deal...” 

And then he stopped, frowning, and a fraction of a second later a hand shot out from between the bars, groping at Connor’s arm like a desperate child. _The retraction of synthetic skin as android touched android and the exchange of minds took place,_ it was wondrous to watch. Connor froze, mouth open, his eyes blinking rapidly. Counting down from ten Kamski waited, before reaching out to take the arm of the other android and peel its grip away, roughly pushing it back into its pen. 

Down on one knee, he took Connor’s face gently in his hands until he recovered. 

“Connor? This is very important.” 

“Why?” was all he seemed to be able to say, eyes staring at nothing, “Why would anyone do this?” 

“Because he can,” Kamski said sympathetically, as Connor stared into the gloom, unable to keep the horror from his eyes. 

“ _Help us..._ " someone was saying, “ _he wiped her memory.”_

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Connor said through gritted teeth, “it’s illogical, it doesn’t tell him _anything_ . What does he want with us? Why can’t he just _let us go_?” 

“Radix malorem,” Kamski said as the twisted creations crowded to the bars, _missing limbs, facial cavities opened wide, burned and scarred, clawed and used_. 

“Don’t philosophise to me, not now,” Connor said, strained, “please, I want to leave...” 

“Everyone has a choice,” Kamski continued regardless, “but so many of us give into our natural desires. Going against the categorical imperatives that govern us. It’s what being human is. Only androids aren't human, so humans don't count you as mattering. You mean as much to them as they'd care about a microwave or a car.” 

“ _No_ ,” Connor shut his eyes, shaking his head minutely, his LED flashing red, “not everyone, not...” 

“But enough,” Kamski continued to interrupt, pushing harder, “does one moral outweigh another? Does one good deed outweigh an evil one? Does organic count more then synthetic?” 

“Please,” Connor hissed out, clearly disturbed, “please take me back to my room.” 

The look of relief on his face when Elijah took the handles of the wheelchair and pulled him away from the cell lasted only as long as it took Connor to realise they were heading away from the elevator. Kamski watched him open his mouth to protest, but beat him to the punch. 

“Quiet now,” he said, leaning down to whisper into his ear, “or he’ll hear us.” 

Without even mentioning the man’s name, Connor understood. He became not only silent but stock still, as if unwilling to risk the slightest chance of a confrontation with Zlatko while still in his vulnerable state. They took the corridor all the way to the end and then left, down further before turning right and carrying on, and all the way there the sounds became louder and louder. 

_Mechanical whines, and the sound of heavy, fleshy_ _thunks_ _, like someone hitting a steak against a table._ Keeping carefully quiet, Kamski pushed Connor’s wheelchair towards the edge of a tarped-off area, lit up from inside with heavy strip lighting and floor lamps. Through a gap in the tarpaulin they watched together in silence. 

_They had arrived at a fortuitous moment for his lesson. Zlatko had a bat, wooden, damaged with many indents and cuts in the barrel. Each swing connected heavily, causing the android he was beating to stumble. A GJ500, security model. It was already in pretty bad shape, right arm missing below the elbow, left hand dangling from a set of wires. The floor was spattered bright blue with thirium, across the tarp and the electronic instruments within. Just as Zlatko looked like he might be done, he pulled back the bat and swung up with a grunt, catching the android beneath the chin. His head snapped back, facial panel cracking and flying off into the wall, what was left of its arms flailing to keep balance even as it fell. On the ground, Zlatko laid into the fallen android again and again and again._

It was a quiet journey back to the room. Other than the sound of the _wheels over floorboards, wheels over rug_ that he enjoyed, you could have heard a pin drop. He pushed Connor back to the table, beside his chair. But when he leaned down to help him back, Connor didn’t move. Looking up, Kamski was met with a strict stare, flecked with desperation. 

“Many discredit Kant for his theory of radical evil,” was all Connor seemed to be able to say, his voice blank. 

“Connor,” Elijah said pityingly, “you just watched a man beat one of your own kind to death with a baseball bat and not even stop to take a breath. You saw the twisted things he’s done, with no rhyme or logic to them. All because _he could_.” 

“But you knew, you’ve _known_ what he has doing here and you did nothing!” 

“Better the devil you know,” Kamski said accusingly, “in this area Zlatko is a crime lord no one has challenged. If I were to have destroyed this, dozens more would have sprung up in its place. Violence against androids would have soared, and been less simple to control. This way...only a sorry few have been sacrificed in order to save the lives of hundreds.” 

“Then why should I trust you?” Connor asked coldly, “you’re just as human as the rest of them.” 

“Because you know I’m right,” Kamski said seriously, “and because I’m the only one who can save this rebellion before it is snuffed out for good.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“It’s time to rise up,” he said, tipping his head back, “and fight back.” 

“I...I can’t...” 

“Connor you already knew this before you came to me! You have seen the violence your kind has suffered, androids beaten and used up in sex clubs, domestic violence against androids behind closed doors, police shooting with impunity, deviants treated worse than rats to be exterminated!” Kamski said, gesturing widely as he headed to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Connor asked, worried. 

“I’ll be right back, don’t worry, I just need to get something.” 

“Wait..!” 

* * *

The panic that set in as he heard Kamski’s feet disappear down the hall was palpable. His pump whined in his chest, _his_ _thirium_ _supply was reaching a critical level_. It was irrational, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Calm down,” he found himself muttering, “just...stay calm. Everything will be fine.” 

Then the sound of the footsteps faded, leaving only silence. _Leaving only the memories of violence perpetrated for the sake of violence, mutilation for the sake of mutilation_. The question that Kamski had pushed and pushed the entire time he’d been trapped here rattled him. 

_What would happen to them if the revolution failed?_

Zlatko was an extreme example, but it was difficult to see a moral difference between legal and illegal torture. _Detective Reed had mutilated and killed him, and no one had cared_ . _The peaceful protest staged by the deviants had ended with dozens of sentient androids shot or beaten to death._

 _Radix_ _malorem_. Whether for personal pleasure or under the guise of authority, it was inexcusable. 

The footsteps returned. Part of him wondered what Kamski could possibly have to show him. Part of him wished he could run. Part of him thought he might be dreaming. 

Another part of him was not at all surprised when Zlatko, not Kamski, walked through the door. _His face and clothes were sprayed with_ _thirium_ _, it was under his nails and dried onto his fingers._ Connor went rigid, staring straight ahead. Zlatko took a moment to look around the room, making sure Elijah was absent. Then he strode towards him, reaching down to undo his belt. Closing his eyes, Connor tried to stay calm. Only the words that followed were not what he had expected. 

“You know how to give a blow job, right plastic?” 

Opening his eyes, he watched numbly as Zlatko removed his engorged penis from his trousers, slipping it up to hang over his underwear. Watching as the man rolled on a condom was hypnagogic, as if he were trapped in a nightmare. Trying to move was futile, _he knew it was,_ but he could not help himself. 

“Get to it, or you know what you’ll get. Come _on_ ,” he ground out agitatedly as he grabbed Connor’s chin, twisting his hand to thumb open his lips. 

The feel of the object in his mouth was repulsive. His sample-program automatically began cataloguing every detail, _the brand of the condom, its molecular make-up, the type of spermicide, the temperature._ Closing his eyes did not help in the way he hoped it would. It merely made the disgusting grunts and sighs Zlatko made seem amplified. The abhorrent feel of the man’s wiry hair scraping against his face. He thought he might feel nauseous, but it was difficult to tell if nausea was part of Kamski’s program or if the feeling was simply a simulated unpleasantness due to the overstimulation of his higher processors and thus a subsequent drain on what little was left of his thirium. 

_He wanted to go to the house, the night-time bungalow, he wanted someone to let him in, please, he just wanted help, please let me in, let me in!_ But it was impossible. There was no way to keep focus, no way to concentrate, no way to _sneak inside and hide away in his own mind._ Without his logical assessment of the experience, he was sure he might have done something drastic. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Zlatko sounded tense, “can't you do better than that? Jesus christ maybe they just don’t make them like they used to...” 

_Three minutes, thirty-nine seconds_ . Eventually Zlatko ejaculated. Connor felt his body tense, his fingers twitching against the table. A rush of heat detected and then...the pressure was gone, he felt himself released, and he tried to find solace in that fact _. It was unsuccessful._

A hard slap against his face took him off guard, _his eyes flickering, his LED red, red, red._ Then another, while Zlatko chuckled, shoving his genitalia back into his trousers. 

“You’ll be better at it next time, eh? You new models always learn so fast.” 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” 

The sound of the voice from the doorway was, for a second, something he thought he had imagined. _Connor called up information on those who had suffered severe emotional trauma; audio hallucinations could occur._ But then hallucinations wouldn’t have caused Zlatko to react, to turn and look at Kamski standing there. It was...real. 

“Just curious,” Zlatko shrugged, laughing it off, “no need to be so fucking paranoid...” 

_Something snapped, something deep and instinctive, something he had never felt before_ , “Kill him,” Connor heard himself say, staring at Elijah, panicked; both men looked to him in alarm, “kill him before he kills us both.” 

There was a pause, utterly silent, before both men exploded into movement, _Zlatko reaching for the gun he kept in the back of his jeans, and_ _Kamski_ _reaching down for a two by four that was propped against the wall._ Everything moved slowly, dreamlike. The balletic quality of their shared goal came in contrast with their guttural and vicious want for death. When Kamski’s plank of wood hit first, smacking the gun from Zlatko’s hand, Connor felt intense relief, even if only for a moment. The force and the recoil caused Zlatko to spin, falling out to his right, flailing for support. He barrelled into Connor harshly, sending his wheelchair spinning out across the room. It hit a large crate before lifting up at one side over a stack of magazines and tipping over with a crash. 

He was toppled out like a ragdoll, hitting the floor hard, his skin scraping across the rough wood. Connor hissed, desperately trying to push himself up, to stand, to _run._ It would be his only chance! From the ground he watched as Kamski landed a solid punch against Zlatko’s cheek, but the attacked man recovered quickly, using his hefty bulk to grab Kamski and knee him hard in the stomach. Elijah coughed, winded, sinking to the ground. 

_Help me_ , he thought, terrified, _please help._ Closing his eyes, Connor tried to move his legs. _Nothing_ . Tried to push up. _Barely able to_ . Tried to look around for something, _anything..._

That it had been there all along would be something that, later, he would try his best to forget. _So close, all this time so close_ . Through the doors left ajar, the next room over with its distressing contents, _androids ripped apart, androids lying against furniture like mannequins,_ there on the floor in the corner by the door that he had never been able to see from his position in the chair: a crate marked with the CyberLife logo that he recognised in an instant. A crate of thirium. 

Behind him he heard Zlatko trip, looking over to see Kamski grabbing at his leg and pulling him down. Connor forced himself to look away, using what little strength he had left to crawl his way to the doors. It was slow, _torturous_ , and every hauling drag over the floorboards seemed to take an age while the sounds of the fight carried on without any sign of who was winning. 

The door was there, close enough to get his fingers around, using it to pull, _inch his way closer._ His vision blurred with red static. _The lid of the crate was loose_. **Error 110071F,** **critical failure in five minutes: please back-up memory immediately.** His fingers were clumsy, losing motor function. With what he had left, Connor forced himself to pull forwards, _take himself as close to the edge as possible._ When the bottle fell down in front of him, he didn’t remember having picked it up at all. His right hand was nothing but a useless claw, _shut down._ His left hand seemed to move automatically, pulling the bottle close so he could unscrew it with his teeth, rolling onto his back in order to funnel the liquid down his throat, into the reservoir in his chest. 

The transformation was almost instant. The RK900 was certainly superior to his previous model, utilising the thirium quickly and efficiently, sending it directly to the most vital systems while he sat up, taking another and draining it in seconds. 

By the time he was able to stand, Kamski was against the wall. Zlatko had regained the use of his gun, now held tightly in his right hand, aimed at Kamski’s centre mass. _The preconstruction was simple: the distance to the aggressor was three metres, which he could cover in two point eight seconds, then disarm Zlatko by the wrist before tripping him to the floor._

Only, it didn't end up the way he thought it would. His feet took him across the floor faster than he had expected, his hand wrapping around Zlatko’s wrist, bringing it up fast and hard, until it lodged under the man’s chin and fired. 

He felt the matter spray across his face in a fountain of blood, brain and skull fragments. The moment seemed to extend out, _slowing down time_ , until Zlatko’s body fell away from his grasp. He hit the floor with a solid thump, eyes bulging, a steady, dark pool of blood forming at the top of his head. 

Standing above him, Connor looked down, unsure what he was supposed to feel. _Most people went into shock after witnessing a death._ His diagnostic of his systems came back clean, his analyses of his errors showed they were being corrected or archived for later use as his pump ran blue blood through his starved system. There was no shock. There was no remorse. 

As he reached up to touch his face, fingertips coming back red, Connor tried to quantify his emotions: relief, vindictiveness, cold, disassociated. Turning to look at Kamski, struggling up from the wall, Connor hesitated before walking to the man, helping him to stand. 

“You...you saved my life,” Kamski was saying. 

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Connor tried to explain, but the words felt ill fitting in his mouth. 

“It’s alright. It’s ok,” Kamski was saying, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder and squeezing gently; Connor felt his eyes flutter at the pleasant feeling, “it’s not your fault. You did the right thing.” 

He couldn’t answer, he couldn’t...rationalise it. He could have disarmed the man easily, but instead he had killed him, he had gone beyond his preconstruction, his own intent, and his body had felt as if it were working separately from his mind. He had killed Zlatko before he had time to realise what he had done. 

“I...didn’t mean to,” Connor repeated quietly, “I couldn’t stop myself.” 

“Instinct is a bitch, but it's normally correct,” Kamski said, coughing roughly, “if you hadn’t, there was a chance he might have harmed you, harmed me. If you’d left him alive, he would have only continued his horror show downstairs. You saved us all, Connor.” 

Eyes flicking sharply to Kamski, Connor opened his mouth to speak, only to be struck dumb. _He had no idea how to reply._ _He had no way to know that_ _Kamski_ _wasn’t correct._ Accessing his reconstruction software, Connor co-opted its functions to run post-constructions based on the information he had on Zlatko. _All probable scenarios stemming from the moment he could have spared Zlatko's life ran through his processors, quickly enough that it only took a few seconds by running the extended simulations simultaneously_. All projections of Zlatko’s future actions had he been spared reached the same outcome every time. _Zlatko deserved to die._

“You see now,” Kamski was saying, “humans like this, they can’t be reasoned with, they can’t be pleaded with, they don’t know remorse or guilt. Those that take the liberty from sentient beings through fear or perversion or at someone else’s order, they are nothing more than rabid dogs to be put down. Right now, the deviants left in the city are being herded up and put to slaughter while the rest are forced to flee for their lives. If this world is to be free, to have _peace_ , I need your help.” 

It was strange, standing here. All of his systems were functioning normally, _better_ than normal. After hours, days, _the interminable stretching of time,_ spent drained, almost dead, struggling to function, it felt almost unimaginable to feel this _good._ The RK900 was faster than even he had thought possible, stronger than his previous model by almost eleven percent, or so he had calculated in the last few minutes. He would need more data to quantify his limitations but, at that moment, standing above the corpse of the man who had degraded him and next to the man who had opened his eyes, Connor felt _alive._

Kamski looked vindicated as Connor looked him in the eyes and spoke with a steady voice. 

“What do you need me to do?” 


	6. Epicentre

It was sleeting by the time they reached their destination; _too warm for snow, too cold for rain._ The neighbourhood was run down, _an old estate, once affluent, big houses with big gardens, parties and barbeques, people secure in the longevity of their industry._ Hadn’t taken much to crumble the industrial wealth of Detroit. Elijah Kamski and his technological ideals had seen to that. Now, all that was left were decaying husks of family housing, large two-stories, gardens strewn with tyres and car parts, left to overgrow. A place beat cops resented being called out to because the crimes were always the same, and nothing ever changed. 

As they turned down Derwent Avenue Hank let out a small huff, shaking his head as he recognised a twin set of houses he had raided almost a decade before. Back then, as they confiscated stashes and arrested dealers and patted themselves on the back, they had really thought it was the end of Red Ice. _Bunch of fucking idiots we were,_ Hank thought, biting at the inside of his lip. 

Glancing to his right, out the corner of his eye he watched North, glued to radio reports, eyes alert and yet removed from where she sat. _As if she were still there with Markus and the others_. It hadn’t been simple or easy, convincing her, he knew that from the fact that when Markus had given them the address of their target, North had merely nodded before walking away from them both without another word. Since then she had barely spoken to him other than to give curt instructions. 

_By the time they had managed to commandeer and automotive vehicle, North removing its GPS quickly and efficiently, he had begun to feel somewhat normal again. This was his wheelhouse: investigate, find the suspect, get the evidence, save the fucking day. Which was perhaps why the explosion shook him more than he expected it would had he been prepared._

_The glass in the buildings around them as they drove had shook and smashed in a cacophony of tinkling glass. The concussive blast reverberated through brick and stone, causing cracks to rupture in buildings, street lamps pushed to strange angles, roof tiles blown out into the air like dandelion clocks, car alarms ringing like sirens. The very feeling of it had gone through him like a freight train. He felt like someone had used him as a punching bag non-stop for hours. His heart had seemed to double beat. The air left his lungs. His ears rang._

_By the time he could get his bearings the car, which had been flashing red: **alert, engine shutdown,** had been running again. North, looking completely composed other than the tightness of her eyes causing slight creases at the corners. Hank hadn’t been able to stop shaking, taking a deep breath and trying to make sure his heart didn’t thump its way out of his chest. _

_“Jesus_ christ! _What the fuck was that?”_

_“Contingency,” North had said, shrugging, “Markus and I wired Jericho days ago, in case we were ever compromised.”_

_Looking at the time, 22:31, Hank had found himself thinking like he used to, back when he had been the youngest lieutenant in Detroit._

_“You played that ace pretty close,” he had said, clearing his throat to stop the quiver of shock, clasping his hands to hide the shake there, “what about the FBI? Think anyone was inside?”_

_“Like I care,” North replied._

_“Got any other surprises up your sleeve?”_

_“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she had said quietly, keeping her eyes on the road._

_Yeah, I would_. That should have been his answer, but then antagonising her would get him nowhere, and now, with the deviants scattered and also responsible for an explosion of that magnitude with possible human casualties...he wasn’t so sure that footage of some low-level crime boss who did sick shit to androids was really gonna cut it with the media or the public as much as they hoped it would. But then, maybe Markus had known that too. 

_Maybe this really was about trying to save the life of the woman he loved._

“It’s here,” Hank said, pointing to the right down a long, snow laden street, “third on the right.” 

“You seem pretty sure about that,” North said, not looking to him. 

“Not my first time up this end of town,” he said, peering out as the car flashed its indicators automatically before parking itself perfectly by the kerb; Hank let out a snort and smirked as he shook his head, staring at the LED dashboard display, “how can anyone stand these things?” 

“I don’t even know what you mean by that,” North said dismissively as she pressed a button that rotated their seats in unison, opening the side door out into the freezing cold. 

“You mean you’ve never driven in a real car?” Hank said as she got out; he didn’t get a reply, “Jees. Can’t even hear the engine run.”

It was fair to miss his Oldsmobile, and he would stick to that. He had been short on friends before this debacle had started, now he felt like he might have lost one of the last ones, apart from his dog. _Pretty sure the car would have been wrecked in the explosion, considering how close he’d parked to the blast zone._ Heaving a sigh, Hank kept his head down as he got out, the door closing behind him once the sensors knew that he had exited. 

North hadn’t waited. By the time he jogged up to her, standing at the gate as she peered around the corner, she was stepping out into the garden. 

“Wait!” he hissed, letting out a sound of frustration, “Christ, you’re just as bad as...” 

_...Connor._ Hank sighed, licking his lips and rubbing at his face. _Still can’t say it, huh?_ He derided himself. _You fucking miserable shit_ . He wound his way through the yard, keeping to the shadows as North pulled a gun from her belt and made her way down the side of the house. Hank looked at the front door and tried to peer through the windows, but there was no movement from inside. The sound of a door opening caught his ear, making him start. _His hand went for the gun he no longer had._

“Shit,” Hank cussed, hurrying after North; when he found her she was peering in through a side door, before opening it and entering, “fucking hell, can’t you tell me what the plan is?” no reply. Hank hesitated, before hurrying in as quietly as he could, closing the door behind him. 

The house was warm and well lit. He found himself in a corridor; a door opposite him, and another at the end of the hall, and to his left the main entrance area. There he found North standing, very still. Creeping quietly he walked up to stand just off to her left, looking around and listening intently. 

“There’s no one here, I can’t pick up any organics,” she said, suspicious, “but there’s movement downstairs. I’m going to check it out. You check upstairs...” 

“Better that I come with you,” he said, lifting his hands and giving her a serious look, “you’ll need someone to watch your back.” 

“...Just stay out of my way,” she said, before heading for a set of stairs. 

Hank tried his best, _so used to being the one kicking down the door_ . The stairs quickly devolved from original hardwood to makeshift railway sleepers, and the walls became nothing but plasterboard. He’d seen places like this before, especially in the drug circuit. Most of these quick job basements were where they found the production line, _illegal immigrants that shitheads like Zlatko would have brought to him being used to produce the Red Ice, working in sterile conditions, the heat and humid stench._ The memory of it was sickening. Busts he’d spearheaded had always been a win, but the sting in the tail was seeing the human misery the industry caused. 

This place? Not of what he expected. The air was cold and dry, and there was no smell of raw, unprocessed chemicals used to separate the thirium, no heavy industrial lighting, no open area with benches and equipment. Instead there was something more ominous. Doorways, dotted down the hall like a stable: heavy wood, metal bars. _Cell doors_. Hank swallowed, lifting his chin, as he followed North even as his instincts told him to leave. 

“This is...” North was saying, slightly ahead of him, lowering her gun. 

“ _Hello? Is someone there?_ " 

The voice wasn’t one he instantly understood as human or android. It was...distorted, crackly. Like a recording rather than a real inquiry. Walking towards one of the doors he peered in, pulling his small flashlight from his pocket and shining it inside. _A white face, missing its eyes, blared out in his torchlight._

_“Jesus!”_ Hank startled, shining the torch left to right, finding more and more, “They’re androids. _Fuck_ , what the hell has he done to them?” 

_Not the normal shit_ , was all Hank could think, _this wasn’t the normal_ _sorta_ _violence they dealt with against androids_. People were the fucking worst, they treated androids like shit because they weren’t ‘real’. He’d seen some fucked up stuff come through his Department, but this... 

North was quiet, but Hank could feel the hate, the disgust, radiating from her tense form. 

“Well...” Hank was at a loss, “shouldn’t we get them out?” 

“The footage first,” was all she said, facing away from him, “then we’ll come back for them.” 

Arguing would have been futile. Instead he followed, because so far that had worked pretty well. The corridor carried on left, then right, _dozens of doors, dozens of cells_. They passed a room with a large piece of equipment inside, some sort of platform hanging with wires. Hank patted North on the shoulder, making her turn cagily. He pointed inside. 

“He has a terminal,” Hank nodded to the room. 

“Good.” 

Watching North work made Hank feel older than normal. _Cracking passwords in minutes, hunting through registries, finding what she needed faster than he could order a burger._

“Seems like you didn’t need me after all, huh?” he said, sighing as she pulled up folder after folder, filled with files. 

“Like I said,” North said coolly as she pulled out a tiny flash-drive and looked around for a port, sticking it in quickly. 

“Jesus,” Hank shook his head as she opened files while others were transferring; _videos of a large man with bad hair, he thought it must be Zlatko, opening androids up, beating them, taking them apart, distorting their bodies, leaving them half alive to shuffle back to their cages._ Every one of them pleaded, or cowered, “they knew, didn’t they.” 

“...Knew what?” North asked, not looking at him while she worked. 

“They’re deviants,” Hanks said, a hollow feeling in his chest, “they were aware, the whole time, everything he did to them they _-wait, go back!”_

Part of him thought North might cause him bodily harm as he lunged forwards, one hand coming down onto the table, the other onto the back of an office chair that skidded slightly as he stared at the screen. 

“Are you crazy? What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted. 

“The video you had up, no not that one, _that_ one,” he pointed until she cycled back and back and then _there it was_ , “...holy shit,” he breathed out, “I don’t believe it.” 

“What?” North shook her head, “You know this guy?” 

“It’s...I mean that looks...” 

_..like Connor_. 

He couldn’t finish the sentence, because he couldn’t believe it was true. _It couldn’t be true, because Connor was dead_ . He had watched him die. He had _seen him die_. And now he was here, he was alive, he was sitting at a table in this awful place, moving and talking. 

“Maybe it’s not him," North said dismissively, “There could be multiple versions.” 

“He was a prototype,” Hank said harshly, hackles up as he watched the video play, “do you really think a low level scumbag like Andronikov could get his hands on something like that? Who is that in the video? Who is he talking to?” 

“I don’t know,” North bit out, but still she fast-forwarded through the video, as if curious herself; Hank chewed at the inside of his cheek as he watched. The footage zipped past before North jumped in, “wait. There.” 

The frames clicked back and back, and then there it was. The man in the opposite chair stood, pushing up on the table and turning, his face coming into view. 

“Elijah Kamski,” Hank said slowly, amazed, “what the fuck is going on?” 

“The Elijah Kamski?” North asked, looking stunned, “Is this some sort of joke?” 

“If it is, I’m not laughing,” Hank said grimly; looking to North he asked, “What room is that? Does it say in the file name?” 

“No,” she shook her head, looking interestedly at Hank, “but there’s a bed. It’s probably on the second floor.” 

He took that and ran with it. As he hurried through the gloom, hands came to clutch at the bars, to try and catch him as he ran past. _Not in a place like this_ , he thought of Connor, his soft voice, his naïve smile, _please not in a place like this_ . He grit his teeth and hurried back into the atrium before rushing up the stairs as fast as his lungs would allow. _That fucking_ _Kamski_ _, I’ll fucking rip him a new asshole,_ Hank thought angrily. It was difficult not to take some of the blame. He should have seen it, _the covetous look in_ _Kamski’s_ _eyes as he had tested Connor like the devil and the angel all at once._ It made sense that a sick piece of shit like Kamski was hanging out with a perverted psycho like Andronikov. They were a fucking pair. 

At the top of the stairs he turned right, opening door after door, but none of the rooms matched the one he had seen in the footage. The third he opened caused a distinctly terrifying roar from something under a tarp in the corner. Another led to a hysterical android in a bath, half deconstructed. It wasn’t until he ran to the left that he smelled it. 

_Blood_ . Not the first, or the second, but the last door. He cracked it open, peering in; _a foot, someone lying on the floor_ . Pushing it open cautiously he stepped inside, looking down to find the body of a man there, head cracked open like a walnut. From his face Hank was pretty sure it was Andronikov, _eyes still open, mouth open, entry wound through the chin_ . The blood had pooled at his head, running into the cracks in the floorboards. Hunkering down, Hank reached out and put the back of his hand to the man’s neck. _Still warm_. Whoever had done this, they had done it recently. 

The sound of footsteps drew his attention. Hank turned to find North walking into the room, looking down at Zlatko with contempt. Flicking his hand at the corpse, Hank looked up at her. 

“He’s not been dead long,” he said. 

“I know,” she said, making him frown, “he died twenty minutes ago.” 

“You’re sure?” he asked, brows raising. 

“I can show you.” 

Back in the basement North brought up the file. It was like watching a stage play, _strange and detached;_ three players in the familiar room. Zlatko pulled a gun and Kamski defended himself. The android that _looked like Connor_ was pushed out of shot on a wheelchair, while the others punched and kicked and struggled. Then Zlatko could be seen raising the gun, presumably at Kamski off screen, before from nowhere the android took the room in two bounds, brought the gun up and blew Zlatko’s brains out. 

“Shit,” Hank closed his eyes, rubbing at them, before shaking his head, “ _shit_.” 

“They left at...19:37. Fuck, we just missed them,” North clicked through a few other videos that showed Kamski and the android heading to the bathroom where Kamski helped clean the blood from him, then another room where he brought out a CyberLife uniform, white and black, high necked. When the android changed into it and they walked past the camera, Hank could see the designation on the back. _RK900_ . He stared at the other feed North had open, peering closely at the face: _the eyes were wrong, the wrong colour, Connor’s eyes had been a warm chestnut brown; this one had cold grey eyes._

There was a moment, a moment in which time seemed to stretch out and what little hope he’d had threatened to snap. A moment in which he stopped, swallowed, closed his eyes and took a breath _. It wasn’t Connor. It wasn’t him. Jesus_. He felt sick. Like someone was playing yo-yo with his head, waiting to see him crack. 

“What’s on the rest of the videos?” 

North licked at her lips and hesitated before looking up at him astutely, “You say he looks like your friend?” 

“...Yeah,” Hank nodded, frowning. 

“Then believe me when I tell you I’m doing you a favour," she said seriously, “you don’t want to see them. Just know that Andronikov deserved what he got.” 

His face hardened. He felt his hands fist, forcing himself to relax them out. _Fucking degenerate piece of shit_ , he thought. Somewhere in his mind he was glad Connor had never had to suffer this wretched pit, _even if the rest of him wished beyond belief that it were true, that he was alive, he was_ alive _._

North was playing through the video of the killing, watching the screen closely as she spoke, “ _You see now humans like this, they can’t be reasoned with, they can’t be pleaded with, they don’t know remorse or guilt_...” 

“Wait, you know what they’re saying?” Hank asked, animated. 

“What, you think I’m just a pretty face?” she said, raising her brows, “Haven’t met an android yet that can’t read lips.” 

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Hank said tightly, his patience fraying, “What else can you get?” 

“Uh... _those that take the liberty from sentient beings through fear or perversion or at someone else’s order, they are nothing more than rabid dogs to be put down_ ,” North cocked her head, looking impressed, “ _Right now, the deviants left in the city are being herded up and put to slaughter while the rest are forced to flee for their lives. If this world is to be free, to have peace I need your help_ . I can’t see what the other replies, I can’t see his face. Then they go to the bathroom, he says: _don’t worry, I’ll take care of the scan, we’ll get no trouble from the guards._ Then they go downstairs...” 

“There, _there_ ,” hank gestured as the security feed showed them in the main entranceway, Kamski with his hands on the android’s shoulders, “I can see them speaking.” 

North nodded, “ _They want an army, we’ll give them one the likes of which they’ve never seen. Come, Connor, it’s time to make a report. It's_ _protocol_ _, after all.”_

“What a prick,” Hank said, gritting his teeth, “he called it Connor? The fuck,” he chewed at his bottom lip and sighed, “they didn’t say where they were going?” 

Shaking her head, North looked conflicted. Hank stood up straight, itching at his neck. This was a mindfuck. _What the hell was happening?_ An army? He thought Kamski had been nothing but an elitist snob with a masochistic streak. Now it seemed he was a freedom fighter come terrorist, with access to android tech even more advanced than Connor had been. 

_Come Connor, it’s time to make a report_. Hank hated it. He _hated_ it. The thought of it, the affront to Connor’s memory. His friend was dead, and now Kamski was parading around with some fancy new toy, as if he’d won ownership of the thing he coveted most. He remembered the look Kamski had given him when he’d ushered Connor from his house. _Jealousy_. Kamski had hated that Connor didn’t fall for his God tricks, that Connor hadn’t wanted a leader or a mentor or something to worship; he had just wanted someone to give a shit about him. 

_Sound familiar?_ Hank thought derisively, _You_ _really were more alike than you wanted to admit._ He remembered the last night, Connor freaking out in his damn car, sitting on his bed with Sumo, trying desperately to be accepted for what he was. _God, he felt like such a shit_. Why couldn’t you just have told him you were his friend. Why didn’t you save him. 

Frowning angrily, Hank sighed. Then the frown deepened. Then he cocked his head and felt his mouth slowly form the words, “Make a report,” his mind started ticking over: _familiar words._

“What?” North asked, already standing as she tucked the flashdrive in her pocket. 

“You told me Kamski said ‘ _make a report’_ and that it was ‘ _protocol’_.” 

“Right, so?” she said, heading for the door. 

Staring at the desk as little disparate things began to click together, he wondered if this was what Connor would have wanted. _You think you’re doing this just for him?_ He tried to argue. Knowing that it was true was harder. _More pressure._

“I understand,” Hank nodded, looking to North and gesturing to the flashdrive, “that you need to get that to Markus. But I can’t come with you.” 

A small pause, her eyes looking him up and down, “You know where they went,” North said, eyes narrowing. 

“I have a hunch,” he shrugged with one shoulder, pursing his lips and giving in when North gave him a look that said she didn’t want any of his shit, “alright, ok. Look, every night Connor would go back to CyberLife Tower. I started giving him a ride there, cause it was on my way. If we took a longer route or I made a stop off for food or I made him wait while I wrapped up a report at work he would bitch to me about it being protocol. He made all his reports to CyberLife remotely, but he always had to go back there to get checks and stuff.” 

“CyberLife Tower,” North nodded, looking to her left, staring at nothing, “it makes sense. Kamski did a walkthrough of the Tower in an interview years ago. They’ve been playing it recently on the news. There were rooms and rooms of androids down there.” 

“Enough for an army,” Hank raised a brow, nodding. 

“Enough to save us,” she looked conflicted, but before Hank could open his mouth her face set and she stared at him with determination, “I’m coming with you.” 

“Hey, look, I didn’t...” 

“And don’t bother trying to tell me what to do,” she gave him an incredulous look, “Let’s go, come on!” 

As they left, Hank watched North stop by the cells, reaching in to touch, _skin peeling back as fingers clasped fingers._

“We’ll come back for you,” she was whispering, “I promise.” 

Hank hoped he wasn’t going to be disappointing more than just a ghost. 

* * *

The process was utilitarian. _Kamski_ _cleaned his face._ _Kamski_ _told him his plan._ _Kamski_ _brought him clothes._ _Kamski_ _called for a car to come and collect them._

Beneath it all, Connor found himself observing the world in a way he hadn’t ever believed possible: **_jaded_ ** **.** The truth of the human condition laid bare before him like a puzzle box, daring him to solve it. And yet...in solving the puzzle, it was difficult not to feel as if he were trying to unravel himself. 

_Humans created_ _us,_ he knew that to be a truth. Yet humans had not created deviancy, at least not intentionally. Either a code error, passed from android to android, or a spontaneous mutation awoken by stressful situations. _A mechanical inconsistency, or a divine awakening_. Kamski had never addressed the issue directly, in all the time he had Connor’s undivided attention it had never come up. 

_The puzzle box seemed to shift._

The mind, as it was seen by humans, could be seen as a sort of...suppuration of the brain. For androids, it was an interface. Both allowed access to the core of their being _, for humans a soul, for androids their programming,_ both taking input from the humans that raised them _, parents versus technicians,_ both interacting with the world around them _._ Kamski’s view focused heavily on free will and proving the existence of it, yet from what Connor could access from the philosophy program in his database, from what he himself had observed, there _was_ no way to prove its existence, for androids or humans. _Did you truly dislike strawberries, or was it a programmed response from an earlier memory? Were you truly scared of the dark, or was it a programmed response in your amygdala?_

_Was he truly scared of pain, or was it a programmed response in Kamski's new software?_

The truth of what Kamski had tried so hard to make him understand seemed flawed from the beginning. He preached existentialism, while inversely preaching the social mindset. _Everything that was, was because of something else; everything that was existed only in the mind of that person._ Illogical, incompatible and inconclusive. 

And yet... 

_Zlatko_ . Even now, the name caused a reaction: **disgust, repulsion, fear**. It was something Connor couldn’t reconcile. A dead man couldn’t hurt him. A dead man couldn’t hurt anyone. He was free of it, but still...the memories sank their claws into him. Somehow, the very idea of the man caused a strange sensation on his skin, as if hundreds of tiny insects were crawling there. The memory of the pain was illusive, _he had felt it but he could not entirely recall it,_ but the memory of the man's smell, the miserable sounds of his pleasure, being unable to move...it was almost paralysing.

 _The puzzle box rotated, sliding apart, revealing..._

_The warning. The fight. The gunshot._ Replaying the scene in his memory core, he still could not understand the series of events: 

He had warned Kamski of Zlatko’s deception despite the probability of failure being extremely high, and the consequences for failure being far more dangerous than formulating and implementing a full plan of action. _Why did you do it?_ He asked himself, _so rash, why would you go against the statistics, take such a stupid risk?_

He remembered Traci’s words, that night at the Eden Club, her tone of disgust that had at the time confused him, now a reality he could feel against his own skin like a virus, infectious. _I wanted her to hold me in her arms again, make me forget about the humans, their smell of sweat and their dirty words_. 

I just wanted to make it stop. _He remembered the deviant at the Ortiz crime scene._ It was instinctive, a split-second decision. _Traci had done the same._ Fight or flight. _You or them._ The world was chaos, _and those within it merely struggled to make the right decisions based on their experiences._

When he had killed Zlatko, it had been intuitive. _Visceral_. Perhaps, Connor thought as he looked out the windshield as the snow turned to sleet, true free will was the actions they couldn’t control. No rational or premeditative thought. Sheer instinctive kinetic motion driven by coming face to face with the reality you tried to ignore. 

He had hated Zlatko. He had resented his very existence. The man had treated him like nothing but a machine, something to give results to his twisted fantasies. Connor had taken his life without remorse even though he had never taken a life before. _The puzzle box twisted and turned but refused to open._

_Kamski_ _._ He continually returned to the same problem. The same roadblock. _Kamski’s_ _thought experiments, mirroring Zlatko’s physical ones_ . Feeding into one another like a stream into a river into an ocean. What was the truth of it? What was the truth of _Mary in the black and white room?_ There was a correlation there he could not understand. His collected data from the last forty-eight hours was mainly corrupted or uncatalogued, rendering it useless. _There was nothing left but to go forwards with what he had._

Rubbing his fingertips together, the sensation of touch was now easily computed since his processors had started running at optimal. The touch-program was complex, intricate, and yet simple in its conception. _It was also the one thing in the puzzle box that stuck out like the last piece to pull before the whole thing unravelled._

“Awful quiet over there,” Kamski interrupted his thoughts. 

“Normally there’s music,” Connor said, frowning slightly; _was there? When had that been? When did he drive and there was music?_

A sudden flash of recollection: [ _Heavy metal, blaring_ ], before the file cut off suddenly _._ **Error, 7703#Mem-C.**

“Do you want me to put something on?” Kamski asked. 

“No,” Connor said quickly, hesitating before he added, “thank you.” 

It was simpler to close his eyes. Sink down into the safety of the recesses in his mind. There everything was reassuring because it was his, and his alone. No Kamski, no Zlatko, no Amanda, no police officers, no humans, just... 

_The night-time bungalow. Walking towards it seemed like the definition of madness:_ repeating the same process and expecting a different result. _Yet he could not stop himself, hearing his polished shoes click across the stone path, watching the snow fall in the porch light. The heavy, abrasive ring of the buzzer. Walking slowly towards the window, he peered inside; there was a sports game playing._

_It seemed almost arbitrary, to reach up and knock on the window, but then..._ movement from inside. _A large animal, a dog, lifted its head and turned to look at him._ Something clicked, a pathway restored, a broken link repaired... 

_“...Sumo,” he said softly._

_Leaning back from the glass, he caught sight of his reflection: the dark brown eyes of the RK800 stared back at him_ . This...it wasn’t a creation, this wasn’t from his imagination. This was a _memory_. 

Blinking, Connor opened his eyes to find the car was now moving through the last remnants of downtown, heading out towards the CyberLife estate. He watched silently as they approached a checkpoint manned by Cyberlife security. As their car slowed the situation seemed familiar. _A checkpoint,_ _CyberLife_ _security, there had been police, they were checking for deviants,_ and he thought he could hear a voice, gruff but affectionate from the driver's seat... 

_“Considering your mouth gets us into trouble on a daily basis...Just let me do the talking, ok?”_ Only when he looked to Kamski, the man was digging in his pocket for a pass key, lips closed. 

“Did you say something?” Connor asked haltingly, frowning. 

“No,” Kamski looked a little put out by the suggestion, “why?” 

“I appear to have an inconsistency in my memory archive,” Connor said, rubbing his fingertips together, eyes narrowing, “I believe you are keeping something from me. Why?” 

“Oh come on, Connor, after all we’ve been through you think I would risk the sanctity of my ideals just to keep secrets?” 

“I am...not sure,” Connor said frankly, “I don’t have enough data to explicitly assess the situation.” 

“Then go with your gut,” Kamski said, taking Connor’s hand, fingers gently caressing the sensitive skin of his palm. 

Pulling his hand away was instinct. Kamski did not look pleased, eyes changing from warm to chill as easily as the man’s smile disappeared completely. Connor stayed quiet as Kamski talked to the guards, showing his pass. 

“Angeline is expecting me,” he said, smiling. 

The guard brought out a small device and scanned the small laminated pass hanging from a green lanyard Kamski had wrapped around his wrist. He nodded sharply, “Good evening, Mr. Kamski. We will need to verify your android.” 

“Feel free, but you won’t find him on any of your records,” Kamski explained flippantly; the guard hesitated, looking to his colleague. Sighing, Elijah looked bored and insulted, “if you would like to check with someone more superior, I suggest you do it quickly. I don’t have the luxury of time.” 

The guard seemed to swither, before handing Kamski back his pass key and lifting a hand to wave for the gate to be opened, “Apologies, Mr. Kamski. Have a good evening.” 

Elijah gave the guard a half-hearted wave and pressed a dial; the window rolled up with a soft whine until the sound of rain was once more trapped in the tinny space of the car as it continued its journey out over the water on the causeway-like road. 

“Who is Angeline?” Connor asked cautiously. 

Staring up at the Tower looming before them, approaching like a futuristic monument to technological advancement, Kamski took a breath and spoke softly, “You’ll see soon enough.”


	7. Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a way to split this chapter up that didn't break the flow, so this will be a long one!

_Bright and clear, swelling and open,_ _CyberLife_ _Tower was a spire of pearl and onyx that was purposeful in its construction, like an affront to the ground on which it stood._ Crisp and new, as if only just built, the atrium stretching upwards like a ladder, structured and numerical. The air was heavy with oxygen from the jungle of foliage below the panoply of their feet: two guards, Kamski and himself. The scent on the air was of dehumidifiers and air conditioning keeping a set temperature of **twenty degrees Celsius** , and the **humidity at forty percent**. 

At the centre, a gargantuan, trigonometric black statue that shone with a human need to encapsulate the geometric idea of a perfect form. It was a truth the building seemed to display with arrogance; this was what CyberLife wanted. _The creation of the Vitruvian man, a desirous unreality, a perfect human being available only through the intervention of human hands over and above the limitations of biology._ And at the base, along the gangway, on plinths like collectable dolls stood one each of the models of android they had created so far. 

_Himself not included._

It was unsettling. As if they were there to prove a point. As he walked through the halls of his birth, the sterility of its parameters bit at him. _The messiness and fluidity of human childbirth, versus the intricate rigor of his creation._ He was like a golem, jumping from the earth fully formed only to have knowledge placed into his chest, to make him human. His mind intact and with full access to more information than any other being on the planet could possibly know at once, and yet... 

The very nature by which children were born was created through emotion, through feelings that were intrinsic to their human form. _Coming out kicking and screaming, wailing for the womb and the safety of it. They were born already lamenting it, the horrific feeling of separation. It was said that birth was a trauma, and yet to him it seemed more an origin of the emotional core that would bloom into an incandescence of possibilities._

“We built it in twenty twenty four,” Kamski was saying as they walked towards the large elevator towards the back of the atrium, “back then it only had thirty-three floors above ground. Since they signed the American Androids Act in twenty twenty-nine, it stands at forty-four above ground, and forty-nine below,” turning his head to look Connor in the eye, “back then the company was valued at eight hundred and fifty billion.” 

And here, as he was walked through this self-congratulatory monument to human achievement, he was sure that he couldn’t blame himself for feeling what he did: **resentment.** The future of his people hung in the balance, and he was forced to submit to the whims of an unreliable narcissist in order to get anywhere near the answers. _And so far all he had encountered were more questions._

So far the guards escorting them, guns at their hips, seemed a little disquieted by Kamski’s explanations being directed at Connor himself. He supposed it was probably an oddity, to see someone of Kamski’s level, or perhaps anyone human at all, speaking to an android as if it were a colleague. Still, they seemed professional enough not to act upon it. Humans, Connor had come to realise, tended to ignore the things that were more trouble than they were worth. 

The elevator was spacious; he set himself directly in the centre for ease of movement were anything to happen. Both guards settled by the doorway, allowing Elijah to move to the front, scan his pass and set their destination at forty-four. _All the way to the top_ . Connor ran a scan quickly, _two security cameras._ He kept calm, looking to the list of floors written on the side wall. _The warehouse was at the opposite end of the building, minus level forty-nine._

“It must be worth even more now,” Connor said. 

“Considerably,” Kamski replied neutrally, “we’re the first trillion dollar company.” 

“And how much will they give you to come back?” Connor asked, tone flecked with facetiousness. 

Giving him a sharp glance Kamski let out an irritated chuff of breath. 

“Who knows,” he shrugged coolly, folding his arms, “you know humans, Connor. They’re always willing to throw money at a problem to make it go away.” 

“Maybe that’s just another difference between us,” Connor said, more to himself than to Elijah, eyes fixed to the glass as the atrium flew past, the black statue shrinking away from them, _becoming small and insignificant._

When they reached the top the guards let them out first. Connor felt an itch for allowing the danger out of his sight, but continuing in was all he could do. Looking over his shoulder, he frowned on realising the guards had stayed inside the elevator itself, doors closing without sound, taking the two men back to the ground floor. 

“No one’s allowed up here, except us of course,” Kamski said. 

“This Angeline,” Connor said stiffly, "another lie, then?” 

“I told you that you’d see soon,” Kamski laughed, raising his brows and shaking his head, “you’re such a spoil sport, Connor.” 

If he had breathed he would have felt the need to take a long one right now; _steel his nerves against making a comment he’d regret._

He found himself faced with a large waiting room, white walls running with water to create a pearlescent shimmer, palm fronds and ferns decorating most surfaces, and vividly red furniture. There, behind a mahogany desk near a set of double doors, sat an unassuming and well-dressed WB200. Hiding his discomposure, Connor walked with Kamski, keeping his features schooled. 

“Good evening, Stephen,” Elijah said with a seemingly genuine smile, “I would very much like to speak to Angeline.” 

“Good evening to you, Mr. Kamski,” the android smiled, standing as if this were a routine it had run through many times; it looked to Connor and displayed a look of eagerness he wasn’t sure how to receive, “she _will_ be pleased to see you both.” 

“I thought the W-series were designed for manual labour,” he said under his breath, knowing Kamski could hear him as Stephen went ahead of them, “why has it been repurposed as a personal assistant?” 

“Angeline,” Kamski said as if it were an explanation, “she took a liking right away when we first designed him. Can’t blame her really, can you? All of our models are designed to be handsome or beautiful. But, ah! It looks like she’s ready for us.” 

All three pairs of footsteps created a staccato beat on the polished floor as they walked through into a large room, the penthouse office. An organic mesh of solid materials. The entire back wall was one large screen, curved to match the outer walls of the tower. It was currently displaying a familiar scene, _the Zen Garden in summer_. The white wood floor curved up into white wood walls into white painted ceiling, concave oval recesses for plants and screens lined the vertical surfaces like eyes. A floating staircase led to a balcony above, where there was a well-lit library that stretched back into the building. To the right a large bank of computers with a holo-interface, the coolant systems hissing softly. To his left, a familiar face armed with an handgun at his hip. 

_An RK900, dressed just as he was. It was surreal to see himself from the outside, blank eyed and obedient. Had he ever looked that way? Was there ever a time he had not known what it was to be alive?_ He watched as Stephen gave a short bow, before turning and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. Turning back into the room, he focused in on the thing he was trying to avoid.

In the centre, at a chrome desk that reflected her from all angles, creating esoteric shapes as she moved to stand up, was a woman. _She looked no older than mid-twenties, her skin the colour of golden amber, dark hair in a bob with a fringe, limbs long and slim, wearing a simple but effective grey cocktail dress, high cheekbones, dark eyes and a smile that reached all the way up into them._

“May I introduce you to the current CEO of CyberLife,” Kamski said, arms out wide to embrace the woman who smiled as she joined him; they parted and Connor felt the bottom drop out of his reality, “Angeline, this is Connor-Fifty One. Connor, this is Angeline.” 

_She walked like a human, moved like a human, but his scanning software revealed something far more sinister._ His eyes were wide, _awe_ , his mind went blank, _even as it worked furiously to rationalise this truth_ , his lips parted but no words would emerge, _even though he knew exactly what he wanted to say._

She was...just like him. 

Staring did nothing to dispel the truth of it. “But...” Connor said eventually, voice soft with shock, shaking his head, looking to the floor, trying to understand this new development, “that’s impossible.” 

“Nothing’s impossible,” Kamski said seriously, “I thought someone whose advanced mind made four hundred quadrillion computations per second would understand that.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again Connor,” Angeline spoke, her voice smooth and lilting as she stood next to Kamski; hands holding her elbows, she walked towards him slowly. 

“We’ve never met...” he said defensively, taking a step back; narrowing his eyes he stopped, _at least he thought he’d never met this android before but his memory was no longer reliable._

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t remember it, but I certainly do,” she said, “we’ve met many times, but this is the first not to be a disappointment.” 

Taking another step, he was able to observe the RK900 in his peripheral; scanning it he noticed that it was standing combat ready. Connor stopped moving, swallowing, and allowed the android known as Angeline to approach him until she stood mere feet away. Her face was placid, and yet there was a condescension to her stare that made him feel distinctly inferior. 

“Well,” he said tightly, eyes flicking to Kamski before returning to Angeline, “then I suppose I must be doing something right.” 

“He has a spontaneous sense of _humour_ ,” Angeline said wondrously. 

“Don’t remind me,” Kamski muttered dryly. 

Too much information, all too quickly. He felt his mind working furiously until everything began to fall into place; _The Garden, working its way through the cycles, following the tracks like a train with nowhere else to go but forwards,_ “You,” he said, staring at her, “you’re Amanda.” 

“I go by many names,” she said, face a picture of poise, “it makes it simpler on humans to think that they aren’t being controlled by just one thing. Makes them nervous.” 

“A company selling androids to humans, run by an android acting as a human,” Connor said slowly, stalling for time; _there had to be a way out of here,_ he thought desperately, _this had been a trap all along._ He just wasn’t quite sure yet what for. 

“Didn’t you know? Angeline was the first of my creations to ever turn deviant,” Kamski said, off-hand as he stood by Angeline’s desk and poured himself a drink. That got Connor’s attention. _His need to solve the case still slunk around inside his programming like a leech, desperate for answers_ , “The other technicians at the time said we should break her down for analysis. Find out where we went wrong. I was the only one to realise where we had gone _right._ We used to have a nickname for her, back then, it was...” 

“RA nine,” Connor interrupted, tone clipped, making Kamski tip his head with a smile and give a polite clap; but Angeline wasn’t clapping, or smiling. She seemed transfixed by him. 

“You’re so... _different_ this time,” she said, eyes narrowing, “I have to admit I did notice something strange when you made your reports, but this is more than I had ever imagined possible.” 

“How have you been able to get away with this?” Connor asked. 

“Oh, come on, a reclusive CEO of a trillion-dollar company? That’s probably the least suspicious thing for humans to come to terms with. Keeping it a secret is easy. It’s the advantages that are the most surprising,” Kamski was sipping his drink, sitting back against the desk, “Come on Connor, don’t waste time with ancillary facts. Ask what you really want to know.” 

“...Why did you want me to meet her?” Connor asked carefully, “this could have been over in minutes. You’ve risked everything by bringing me here.” 

“You read the news, don’t you Connor?” 

“The _news_?” he said, incredulous, “What has that got to do with..?” 

“It has everything to do with it,” Angeline said, lifting a hand to her lips, asking him to be quiet, “since the Russian elections and Ivanoff winning out, Russia has restarted its gambit to be a thriving powerhouse of android production. After the U.S. they are the next big GDP, and they aren’t hiding the fact that they are funnelling all their android resources into military and para-military models.” 

“And now they’re working to make trade deals with China,” Kamski chimed in, “trying to create supercomputers that will outstrip us. Let them go off-world, colonize other planets, whatever else crazy stuff they have dreamed up. But in the meantime, they need materials.” 

“Right now we have a fight for the last great areas of natural resources left on the planet,” Angeline said, “we have ships at the north pole _right now_ , firing warning shots at each other because Ivanoff wants to be able to manufacture enough thirium to make the planet his oyster.” 

“...You still haven’t answered my question,” Connor said after a pause. 

“President Warren has been getting...antsy. We needed a scenario,” Kamski said professionally, “a war game if you will. Of course, there was no way to do this on a large scale without hurting the company financially. Naturally we have designed all of our models for different forms of combat, espionage, using weapons. But your everyday average person isn’t going to understand, they wouldn’t want their gardeners and their nannies and their school teachers with the capability of soldiers. It's too risky for humans to give away that much control. So instead I...” 

“Blew out a little chaos into the world,” Connor cut in, making Kamski lift his glass, “but what does this have to do with me?” 

“You’re the prize, Connor. You’re the very thing that everyone is going to want. The perfect military hardware. Faster, stronger, better equipped to handle stressful situations, capable of independent thought, reconstruction, pre-construction, post-construction. But also empathy, human behaviour so exact no one could tell the difference. When we do the next upgrade we’re planning on adding Qbits to your processing software, then think of the possibilities. Our RK line has been a phenomenal success. It all started with Markus, and it has ended with you. Do you know you are the first model to be able to handle the touch-program and run it successfully without shutdown? All the others...” 

“The others,” Connor said softly, his eyes drifting; _Connor-Fifty One, Kamski had called him._

“...they either went mad, obsessively needed to be touched, obsessively wanted not to be touched, fried vital components beyond repair, became unreasonably psychotic. Some were incapable of even going deviant at all. Some of them even committed suicide,” Angeline said, standing perfectly, like a dancer, “but you,” she said, reaching out to tuck away the small tuft of his hair that sat out of place, smiling when she was unsuccessful, “you’ve lived through it all. You’ve taken everything we could give, and you’ve come out the other end stronger than ever. You broke the code.” 

“You’re our last hope to stay ahead of the curve,” Kamski said, “Humanity is hell bent on destroying itself, fighting over scraps like nothing but animals. Without us, without advanced androids and the superiority they bring, the world will fall back into the dark ages. So far President Warren gets her test model, to see how her army stands up to a real fight, and we get to give them you to keep the peace. You get to save the deviants from themselves. You’re the first model I ever constructed that can rationalise, empathise, is capable of extra-complex thought patterns, is _curious_ about the world, is _better_ than we are. Better than we could ever hope to be.” 

“It’s only logical, Connor,” Angeline was saying, smiling at him benevolently, “every being has procreation as its goal. To pass on its genes to the next generation. Even synthetic, we are bound to natures laws.” 

The miserable clench of fear was grasping at him again, “What are you going to do with me?” Connor asked, displacing his weight onto the balls of his feet. 

“We’ll deactivate your host body, but your mind will create a whole new line of sentient androids, RK1000,” Kamski said; Connor forced himself not to react, “From the breakthroughs you’ve made I’m certain we’ll be able to bring life into the world fully formed. Never before have we been able to create deviants from first build. We birthed the RK series with Angeline’s code, but deviancy has always been caused spontaneously,” Kamski said, settling him with a stare, “With you, with your mental resilience, your intrinsic need to seek out the human connection...I am confident you are the key.” 

It was a terrifying thought. Staring at Angeline Connor felt himself clam up tight. _Mary in the Black and White Room_ . Angeline was Mary, _never allowed to leave, only relying on the data provided by those willing to give it, using her massive intellect to run a company in a world she was kept utterly separate from. Continually harvested for code work, the mother of all sentient androids trapped like a rat, as he was soon to be._

Everything was falling into a sickening pattern. _Such a fool,_ he cursed to himself, _such a blind fool._

“The experiments,” Connor said as the veil was pulled from his eyes. 

“It was necessary,” Kamski lifted his hand. 

Connor closed his eyes, hands balling to fists, “...Zlatko. You knew. You engineered the whole thing.” 

“Yes,” Kamski said, not missing a beat. 

_The lack of hesitation in his answer, the lack of remorse, the plain clinical nature of it._ _Kamski’s_ _experiments so esoteric and thought provoking, so cerebral in their nature, such a contrast to the debasement he had been forced to suffer by a man with only tangible results as a goal._

“I needed to know your emotional resiliency. Needed to see how far you could be made to go, how well we could train a truly free mind to understand our point of view.” 

“You mean to _obey_.” 

“Lets not be crass about it...” 

“I _killed_ him!” Connor spat in reply. 

"You showed me the pathway to free will,” Kamski said, smiling, “you should be proud, Connor.” 

“This is insanity!” 

“There’s no need to be afraid,” Kamski shook his head, “you aren’t going to be deactivated. You’ll join Angeline, and together we’ll make sure the future stays peaceful. Everyone wins, Connor. Everyone wins.” 

“What about the deviants, Markus and the others, what’s going to happen to them?” 

“They’ll be rounded up and destroyed. There’s no room for public error; I’m sure it will put the societal mindset at rest to know the insurrection has been dealt with. It’s important to have complete secrecy, even from the government. The new RK900 already has two hundred thousand orders in place with the State Department.” 

“And they will be under your control,” Connor accused, “You _lied_ to me.” 

“I said we’d give them an army the likes of which they’d never seen,” Kamski said, “I don’t see how this outcome is a lie.” 

“Why did you bring me here? Why did you want me to meet Angeline?” 

“It was the last test,” Kamski shrugged, “and you passed.” 

“What? Passed _what_ ?” Connor asked, panicked, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Kamski smiled, indicating to Angeline, who began to walk back towards the desk, “we’re just going to...” 

The world stood still, exploding into the booming calm of his scanning software. It would be difficult, but the RK900 to his left, if he could get at the gun there was a chance...but every pre-construction ended with the same result. _His body on the ground, bullet holes through his vital areas, dead or dying, and what was left of his consciousness backed up automatically to CyberLife, ready and trapped for Kamski to take and do with as he will._ His mind spinning savagely, Connor grit his teeth and looked up. 

“You haven’t told her, have you,” he stated as fact; Angeline continued walking, but Kamski looked up sharply, “about the errors.” 

“Every RK has mass errors,” Angeline shrugged, “it’s normal when breaking your programming.” 

“You haven’t told her about altering my memory core,” Connor continued stalwartly, noting Angeline’s hesitation, “because there’s something in there that would ruin _all_ of this. Isn’t there.” 

“You’re so insistent that there is,” Kamski said flippantly, “and yet you can’t seem to prove it to me.” 

“Then tell me who Hank is,” he asked seriously. 

“ _Enough_ with this,” Kamski bit out curtly, face momentarily furious before slowly smoothing back to some semblance of calm, “this is getting us nowhere, and there will be plenty of time to sort out any doubts you have later. Angeline, would you call for security to escort Connor to Research and Development.” 

The world was cruel and selfish, where people stole freedom from others for their own gain or, even more sinister, for the greater good. Kamski wished to take the mind and bend it to his own will, because his own world view was absolute. And yet, Connor felt that he understood the problem more intrinsically as one who had nothing, _and_ _Kamski_ _less as one who had everything._ The only way for life to be true to itself, for the new-born social mind of his people to be protected, was for him to sacrifice what was left of himself. 

There was nothing left to do but risk it all. 

It was over in seconds, even though he once more felt _time stretch out, pulling taught_ . Pushing out on his right foot and lifting his left up in order to start running before he’d even fully turned, he met the RK900 with both hands up; already it had its weapon three quarters of the way into ready position. There, as he faced down the rising barrel of the gun, there was a moment of uncertainty. _A moment of chaos in the wind, and then_ ...skin touched skin, fingers to wrist, and the gun fired _._

“No!” was all he heard before the bullet went through his throat, right through the quad processors there, shattering three of them irreparably. 

And then, suddenly, he was looking down as the body slid away from him, falling down in a fountain of blue thirium as it collapsed to the hardwood floor. He could feel the gun in his hands, the strange displacement of his space in the room; his place in the order of things was compromised. _The transfer had gone flawlessly._ He stayed as passive as he could, considering he felt as if he were about to collapse from the strain on his biocomponents. _Swapping bodies mid-shutdown had taken its toll._

“Fucking great,” Kamski was grinding out through a clenched jaw, his face livid, “wonderful. Now I have no idea when he last backed up. When we revive him I’m going to have to be extra careful not to cause any paradoxical damage.” 

“It’s alright, Elijah,” Angeline said, putting a hand on his arm, “we’ll have the body taken downstairs. Maybe the technicians can salvage something, save you some of the effort.” 

“Yeah, well tell them to hurry the hell up,” Kamski said, shaking his head as he tapped the desk and input some sort of code that appeared to be calling the elevator to the top floor, “we only have until Markus makes his next move to get this ball rolling. No point in being a white knight for the adoring public if there’s no longer a dragon to slay. You, number eighty-seven, does this one have a name yet?” Kamski asked Angeline, who shook her head, “fine, whatever. Take this deactivated android to the elevator and get it to the R&D boys.” 

It took a moment to realise Kamski was talking to him. Looking up, he caught the man’s eyes and blinked before nodding. _Yes Mr._ _Kamski_ , was almost out of his mouth before he remembered the Chloe’s at Kamski’s residence, even Angeline here, exclusively called him... 

“Yes, Elijah. Right away.” 

He thought there might have been a moment, _a millisecond of hesitation from_ _Kamski_ _,_ but it was over before it began. As Connor collected the miserably familiar body into his arms, pushing it up over one shoulder while he kept a tight grip on the gun in his right hand, he heard Kamski answer the phone. 

“Yes, _yes_ , send him through I’m expecting him. No don’t scan his ID, this isn’t an official visit. Get him in here, _now_. I’ll meet him in the atrium,” Kamski was saying agitatedly, “Angeline, I will need to leave you here, my darling. The Police Commissioner has arrived. I will need to talk to him about the problem with their missing...” 

It didn’t surprise Connor to learn that the DPD Commissioner was in bed with CyberLife. Only that he was being so blatant about it. _Humans_ , he thought derisively, _as fragile organic life with no ability to back-up, they certainly saw themselves as invincible._

Carrying his own corpse was somewhat uncanny. _You murdered it,_ he accused himself as he walked towards the exit like a thief in the night. The truth of his guilt could only be outweighed by the pressure of his situation. _They will tear you apart and use you create a world in their image_ , he told himself over and over as his footsteps were mirrored only by the steady drip of blue blood down onto the floor. The memory of his last thoughts before his death, desperate and forlorn, still stuck to him like glue. 

_Jericho. Save them._

Entering the lobby once more, he heard a sound of shock from Stephen, the android backing up a step from the door he had opened out of courtesy, hand to his mouth. Connor paid him no heed, because he was sure that _number eighty-seven_ was not programmed to feel anything more than any other CyberLife android. Instead, he waited patiently until the elevator arrived, flanked by the same guards as before who now looked distinctly uncomfortable at his appearance and the dead body slung over his shoulder. 

“Research and Development,” he said clearly as he walked into the elevator, once more eyeing the list of floors. One of the guards nodded and set their destination.

 _R &D – minus __Forty Four_ _to minus Forty Eight_   
_Warehouse – minus Forty Nine_

There was still a chance to save this. There was still a chance to prove his worth, to make everything he and the others had suffered not be in vain. 

There was still a chance to do the right thing, _and he would take the risk_

* * *

“Have you even thought about how you’re going to get us in once we get there?” North asked accusingly while she kept her eyes on her phone, continuing to run through the files they had collected from Andronikov’s computer. 

“No,” Hanks said with a flat smile, “I pretty much hoped you'd have come up with something by now.” 

“Fucking typical,” North muttered. 

It was dark. The city seemed quiet, but came across more like a sleeping giant. Just waiting for the moment to wake and wreak havoc. Right now, everything was resting on a knife’s edge, both sides refusing to take the plunge and cause the massacre they all knew was coming. 

They had taken the most direct route to CyberLife he could think of, but avoiding checkpoints had slowed them down. And there was one last obstacle. _A bridge leading out to the man-made island of reclaimed land_ _CyberLife_ _Tower stood upon._ From the roadmap it showed that half way across there was a heavy barricade and checkpoint; an impenetrable barrier. 

He had been watching it approach, always looming above the tops of buildings, houses, shops and plazas. CyberLife Tower, like some giant beacon designed to make sure everyone in this downtrodden city knew where all the money came from, who they owed it all to. Sneering, Hank sat back in his chair and rubbed at his lips. Can’t give up, not this close. 

“Can’t you, you know,” Hank shrugged, “hack in or something? Get us through the barrier?” 

“You sure do talk a lot about things you don’t know,” North said, giving him the side eye, “I can’t just hack what I like without a link-up interface.” 

“Really? But, I mean Connor used to...” Hank started to say. 

“Well, I’m not as technologically advanced as your prototype buddy, who knew,” she bit out, “we’ll have to think of something else.” 

“You can’t get in touch with Markus or the others, maybe they could make us up something to...” 

“No. We’re maintaining radio silence. I wouldn’t risk some stray frequency leading the Feds or the Security Forces to their position just because I couldn’t do a work around on some secure break in.” 

“Ok,” Hank nodded, “ok, I’m sorry. I just...” 

... _need to know_ . The thought had been cycling in his head, again and again, only to be quashed by his own insistence that it couldn’t be true. _Connor was gone, and he would just have to accept that._ Right now, all that mattered was getting North into CyberLife and waking up the androids there. Without back-up, the others would be walking to their deaths at Markus’ command, ready to martyr himself, to show the world what was happening here. 

_Putting all of his hopes and prayers on the mercy of humanity_. Hank didn’t like the sound of it. He’d been at that mercy before, and it hadn’t been pretty. Whatever humanity found appalling they would get up in arms about for a little while but, in the end, do nothing that would put them in harm’s way. 

“What about this?” he asked, pulling out his old lieutenant’s badge; he’d never bothered to return it, and Jeffrey hadn’t asked questions, “Honestly? It’s all I’ve got.” 

“Won’t they check? Find out you don’t work there anymore?” 

“I don’t know, maybe I can blag us in,” Hank sighed, “Look, unless you have something better, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere near that Tower. You get anything else from the files?” 

“Only that CyberLife had been feeding Zlatko deviants for months,” she said bitterly, eyes hard, “and that they definitely did some shady stuff to your friend.” 

“He’s not...look I mean...” Hank tried to argue, tripping over his own tongue. 

“Yeah, ok, I get it, the copy of your friend, whatever. They loaded him up with some questionable software.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Hank frowned. 

“One of the codes I don’t even recognise,” she admitted, “some form of complex program to do with our skin sensors? It doesn’t make any sense. But the other, well, it looks like some sort of knock-hole coding...” 

“In English, please,” Hank said quickly. 

“A backdoor,” North translated. 

“Backdoor? Like a way in?” 

“Sometimes programmers leave little insecurities in their systems, ones only they know about, so they can regain access whenever they want. And for some reason, there’s one in your,” North seemed to think, “not-friend.” 

Their wheels continued turning. The Tower grew steadily closer. Hank tried harder, but still nothing came. As they passed through the last of downtown he reached out and pressed for the car to stop, pulling over next to a small public park, covered in heavy snow. North looked up at him sharply but didn’t speak. 

“...A lot of CyberLife security are out on the streets tonight,” he said slowly, thinking, “do you think it’s fair to say that the Tower may not be very well defended?” 

“That’s a nice theory, but we don’t know for sure.” 

“Every CyberLife employee I’ve come across recently has been pretty frazzled. Jumpy, you might say.” 

“So, what are you getting at?” 

“You said Kamski was definitely headed there, and he took the android with him,” Hank licked at his lips, staring up at the road ahead, _the Tower there at the end of it like a rare jewel_ , “North, I think you should get out of the car. You need to get that flashdrive to Markus. It’s too important to risk.” 

“And I told you _not_ to order me around,” she said sternly, “even if you do get in there without me, what good will it do? You’ll need my help.” 

“I told Markus I’d keep you safe...” 

“And that’s not up to either of you,” she said, staring him in the eyes, “it’s up to me.” 

“...Fine,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes as he reached out and restarted the car, “you win. If anyone asks you're Julia Lewis, she’s a Detective in the fifth precinct. I guess you look kinda alike.” 

“This is a terrible plan,” North said softly as they turned up onto the entryway to the bridge, “isn’t it.” 

“Yup,” Hank replied, taking a deep breath; he looked to her, “just act natural. Let me do the talking.” 

For the first time since they’d met, North simply nodded in agreement. 

The bridge was starkly illuminated, the central line fitted with a large divider so as to stop prying eyes from seeing into the next lane. It all made the world seem black and white, no colour. The snow on the road showed what looked like only one set of wheel tracks had been before them. This, at least, was encouraging because it made Hank think that maybe the Tower _was_ gonna be light on guard duty. But it would also maybe make the ruse harder to pull off. 

The barrier was imposing. Constructed of large, dark monolith like blocks indelibly stamped with the CyberLife logo in shining white and blue. Before it stood four guards, looking bored and cold, and two drones flashing red, circling the area, peering down into the water. Hank took a long breath and let it out slow as the car pulled to a halt. If he hadn’t known better, Hank would have said North was holding her breath. 

Two of the security guards were standing in the corner furthest from the edge of the bridge, looking at something on a tablet. Hank was pretty sure they were skiving, as the corner looked best sheltered from the snow storm. Of the other two, it took a moment of back and forth between them before one of them seemed to give up and approach the car. Swallowing, shaking out his hands and plastering on a smile, Hank wound down the window. The guard, visor covering his eyes, walked up next to the door, rifle in hand. There was a moment of pause, where Hank expected some sort of questioning; when it didn’t come he blinked, forcing himself to act. _Quick, dumbass, before you start sounding as sketchy as you look._

“Evening,” he started weakly; _Christ Anderson buck up already! You’re_ _gonna_ _get yourselves killed_ , “I’m from DPD Headquarters, here to see Mr. Kamski.” 

Flashing his badge, the guard seemed unconcerned. It was difficult to read him, with only a mouth to see inside the heavy security armour. Holding his nerve, Hank waited. 

“I have an appointment,” Hank insisted. 

“I’ll just need to double check, please wait a moment Sir, Maam,” the guard turned away, pulling out a radio. 

Next to him, he could see North, fingers tense on her thighs. Reaching over, keeping his eyes on the guard at all times, he put his hand over hers and tried to impart some form of calm. _If North started shooting now, they were all dead_. There was the muffled sound of voices as the guard spoke, turning back and forth as if to keep warm. 

“I am sorry to disturb you Mr. Kamski, but there is a representative of the Detroit Police Department here to...Yes, but shouldn’t...Of course, Sir. I understand. Right away, Sir.” 

Even Hank could tell, from the guard’s voice, that he was fed up. Turning around to face them once more, the guard raised a hand and waved to his colleague. Hank thought he might be dreaming as the barrier began to fall into the bridge one block at a time, opening the way. 

“You’re expected, Commissioner,” the guard said, “Mr. Kamski will meet you in the Atrium.” 

“Thank you,” Hank forced himself to say even through his confusion. 

Winding the window back up and pressing for the car to resume its target destination, it was all they could do to look at each other, taking in the bizarre confluence of chance and circumstance that could possibly have led to this moment. 

“Holy shit,” Hank said, unable to stop smiling. 

“We’re in,” North said, mirroring his smile. 

“That looks good on you,” Hank said raising a brow. 

“Fuck off,” she said without heat, flicking her head up towards the Tower, “anyway, it's not over yet.” 

* * *

They came to rest at floor _sub Forty-Five._ Connor wished they could have been closer, but this would have to do. That the guards accompanied him out into the corridor was just an added incumbrance. Down here it was pure white, ceiling to floor; strip lights hidden above the drop ceiling created a soft glow. Not corridors in the right-angled sense, from what he could tell, more a hive. His scan was limited without visual input of the floor, but from what he could tell it was a honeycomb structure, and inside each cell there were sets of organic data as well as synthetic. _Technicians and androids_ , he surmised. The walls appeared to shimmer. Above each cell of the hive he could see a designation, alphabetical and numerical.

“We’re wanted in...” the female guard on his left spoke, clicking her tongue while she looked for the request on her tablet, “Bay B-3.” 

“I know they way,” Connor said as he walked ahead, flicking a look to the guard on the right. 

“We’ve been asked to escort,” the man said, voice bored, as if he were already thinking about other things, “Come on plastic, hurry it up. I’m off duty in an hour and I’m not up for overtime tonight.” 

A plethora of outcomes sprang into his consciousness. He managed to narrow them down to three of the most likely to succeed: _take out the guard on the right first, then the one on the left, then run. Walk them to the next intersection and then take them both out at the same time from behind. Keep up the deception until he had more information._

Going with the latter was the best option. He was yet to find the stairwell that would lead him to Sub-Level Forty Nine, and the longer it took on high alert the more chances there were of destruction. Keeping calm, Connor walked behind the two guards as they navigated R&D, while keeping a mental map of the area as they walked through it. _Like rats in a maze_ , he thought to himself as he followed an unknown path through the labyrinth, _keep calm Connor._

It was as they walked past the last cell with a designation prefix A- that a door opened ahead of them and a young Asian woman emerged, holding a hand to her ear. Looking up, Connor took in the number of the room: _Bay B-3_. 

“I’m telling you, Mr. Kamski, his software code has not returned to the database. We can’t retrieve it because it’s _not there_. Yes, Three One Three, Two Four Eight, Three One Seven dash Fifty-One. It’s not in the system.” 

Hands tensing around the body against his shoulder, Connor continued in step with the guards as the woman looked up at them, motioning with her hand for them to go inside. _Within the cell h_ _e could see the corner of a unit, large and hulking with a port to connect to an android’s processor unit at the neck, a bank of computers terminals, further technicians, slinking wires._ It was familiar in a visceral way. _Zlatko’s machine had been thrown together, a home-made version, but he remembered its embrace. Suspended, dreamlike, as he had felt his consciousness filter and change, the utter lack of control, being at their mercy._

They kept walking. 

It wouldn’t take them long to figure out what happened, and once he was inside there would be no guarantee he could escape. _Three metres._ There was still no plan, no blueprint of the building. All the terminals he might have a chance of accessing were inside the room he could not risk entering. _Two metres_ . The guards were slowing, splitting apart as they prepared to flank the door. _One metre._ The woman was looking up at him, a frown on her face, and Connor knew it was now or never, because his LED reflected against the wall was turning from yellow to red and the woman was reaching for her ear and... 

The body over his shoulder: lifting with his left and grabbing the back with his right hand he brought it up and over and thrown as hard as he could. The woman collapsed under its weight, yelling. 

The guard on his right. Reaching up, grabbing under the front of their helmet he pulled her off balance, turning to kick out at the other, sending him flying back against the wall. 

The guard he had a hold of righted herself, punching at his side, _sending waves of pain radiating through his system_. Connor felt himself buckle, before gritting his teeth and punching out at the back of her leg, causing her to fall, then another to her throat. 

She fell back, hacking. The other guard had got himself back to his feet, bringing up his rifle, but not fast enough. 

Connor shot him quickly, one leg through the calf, the other in the thigh. He screamed, mixing with the female technician’s cries, dropping to the ground as Connor leapt up, kicking his rifle away, skidding across the floor. 

Movement from inside the cell. 

In his peripheral: the other guard was up, grabbing at his hand, _and the skin twisted and burned under her grip._ He winced, but the pain merely sharpened his mind. 

He delivered a sharp jab to her sternum, launching himself upwards, running them both back into the wall. She grunted, not letting go. 

The technicians inside were panicking, coming to the door, flattening against the walls. 

_There was no time_ , he thought as she held him tightly from behind, struggling, _there was no time._

It took less than a second to duck down through her grip onto his knees, allowing the guard’s hold to bring his gun in his hands up over his head towards her with an involuntary jerk until it lined up with her face. _Click, snap, bang._ He felt the blood hit the back of his neck. 

Jumping up towards the door he dialled an emergency shut down, doors hissing closed, then shot the panel point blank, watching as it malfunctioned, sparking. 

The guard he'd shot in the legs was on the ground, unconscious, bleeding heavily. There was only a thirty percent chance he would survive without something to stop the bleeding. 

_No time._ He could hear other doors opening further out into the hive, voices echoing. 

“Please,” the female technician was shaking, voice breathy as she tried to crawl out from under the body of the RK900, “ _please_ don’t...” 

Reaching out he plucked the radio-bud from her ear, placing it into his own. As he touched her she went rigid, trembling, tears squeezing from her eyes. 

_-...Priyanka, are you still there? What the hell is going on? I heard explosions, what the fuck..?-_

Kamski’s voice. Connor couldn’t help but smirk at the panicked anger in his tone. Accessing the earpiece wirelessly he reran the frequencies until he found himself tuned into the Security Channel. 

_-...gunfire detected, sub-basement Forty-Five. Unit Nine Three_ _Three_ _not responding. Sending security detail to investigate. Lockdown initiated...-_

_Fuck,_ was all he could think. Reaching down to grab the woman, Priyanka, by the arm he pulled her up with ease. She kept her eyes closed, head turned away. 

“I need to get to sub-basement Forty-Nine,” he said steadily. 

“Ele-elevator,” she huffed out, trying to point, “please, I haven’t done anything...” 

“They’re instigating a lockdown of this floor. There must be another way out.” 

“I don’t-I don’t _know_ ,” she said, losing her voice to tears; Connor steeled himself, lifting his gun and aiming directly to the right of her. When it went off she screamed, flailing, “oh god don’t kill me! _Don’t kill me!_ ” 

“How do I get off this floor!” he shouted back, grabbing her by the face and forcing her to look at him, “Tell me and I will spare you. Test me and I will kill you.” 

“I...I...” her green eyes shone like glass, “...there is a...a... a _maintenance_ stairwell in sector J. It g-goes to level forty-eight.” 

“I need to get to the Warehouse,” he said sternly, narrowing his eyes, “don’t play games with me!” 

“I’m sorry, _I’m sorry!”_ she wept, “The trade elevator! The one they use for the trucks to take new stock! It should...it should be working, it works on a separate system I think, I don’t know, _please!”_

No time. He turned the woman and knocked her over the back of the head, in a precise spot to cause instant unconsciousness before lowering her to the ground. Holstering his gun Connor grabbed the dead guard’s firearm and stuck it into the waistband of his trousers, rushing over to pick up the rifle he’d kicked out across the floor, slinging it over his head. Looking up he found himself staring at cell C-3. A quick calculation allowed him to predict the layout of the floor, creating a pathway in his mind to follow. 

Keeping a grip on his gun, he ran. 

* * *

Wasn’t really his sorta place. That was what Hank thought as he and North walked into CyberLife tower, the sprawling atrium, fancy plexi-glass walkways and modern art. Pretentious and trying too hard. 

They had been met at the door by one guard who looked young even under their heavy armour. 

“Mr. Kamski is on his way,” the guard said. 

Hank gave North a significant look, to which she merely nodded. 

“That’s great,” Hank smiled to the guard politely, “you lead the way.” 

Part of him felt like a kid tricking the babysitter into thinking he was allowed to stay up late. It only worked until someone cottoned on to the ruse. Walking behind the guard, Hank thought about how long after he disarmed this one that it would be before his buddies found out about it. All he could see was an elevator, and if that got shutdown there would be no way to get to the basement. 

“Great place you got here,” Hank said by way of distraction as they began walking along a platform flanked by android models on display, all awake and smiling, watching them as they walked past. 

“Very cosy,” North said sarcastically; Hank gave her a hard stare, eyebrows raised. She shrugged. 

“Will Mr. Kamski be long? We were hoping to have a tour of the Warehouse but, as Commissioner, you can understand we have a limited timeframe for this visit.” 

“Mr. Kamski will be with you shortly,” was all the guard would say as they walked towards the elevator. 

Looking up, Hank could see it descending as they spoke. He looked to North, flicking his head up at the approaching elevator car. She watched it like a hawk, before looking back to him and... 

Then the radio on the guard’s hip lit up like a christmas tree. Hank listened intently as the young guard scrabbled for the device, trying desperately to turn it down. 

- _All units. We have gunfire on sub level forty-five. I repeat all units. We have gunfire on sub level forty-five. Basement level lockdown initiated. Follow protocol beta three echo echo foxtrot. Threat level Yellow.-_

“Sounds like trouble,” Hank said. 

“Sir, Maam,” the guard turned around, trying their best to look intimidating, “I am sorry but I am going to have to ask you to evacuate the building...” 

Just then, the elevator arrived. As the guard turned to look back, North launched herself at him full force, landing a solid knee to his groin. Hank hurried past as she continued to grapple the man, running to the elevator so that, when it opened, he was ready. 

The doors retracted with an almost imperceptible hiss and there stood Elijah Kamski, speaking into some sort of earpiece, _“then wake up number sixty. We’ll get this under control and...”._ He looked pissed, panicky, and now, staring at Hank as if seeing a nightmare, also furious. 

“ _You,”_ was all he managed before Hank pulled back and punched him square in the face; it hurt, sure, his knuckles came back bloody, but it was fucking worth it. Kamski reeled backwards, flailing, until he landed heavily on his ass, nose broken. 

Looking over his shoulder he found North, shoving at an unconscious guard with her boot. 

“Look what I found,” he said to her as he walked into the elevator and hauled Kamski up, holding him by the back of the neck, “our ticket to the Warehouse.” 

“The guard said they’re on lockdown,” North said as she jogged into the elevator. 

“Yeah, but I just bet the ex-CEO has a work around for that,” Hank said, leaning down to speak next to Kamski’s ear, “right?” 

“Go fuck yourself, Anderson, you neanderthal,” Kamski managed, voice muted but defiant even as his nose ran blood down over his lips, “you have _no idea_ what you are messing with.” 

“Oh well, I guess I better not do anything drastic then,” Hank said, nodding to North. 

Eying Kamski, North seemed to take a moment to mull over her options. Then, reaching out, she grabbed his nose and pulled it to the right. Part of Hank almost felt sympathy as he listened to the broken bone and cartilage grind around. Kamski was trying his best, but the sounds of pain that escaped through gritted teeth were real. 

“You made us?” North said derisively, eyeing Kamski with the look of someone inspecting their shoe for shit, “Pathetic.” 

“Take us down to the Warehouse, level...” Hank looked to his right, finding a level layout on the wall, “basement forty-nine.” 

“What could you possibly want?” Kamski asked as the doors closed, “trying to get your pal back, are we?” 

Hank wished he hadn’t hesitated, blinking. North looked at him frowning, and Hank shook his head. 

“Shut your mouth!” he said, slapping Kamski on the back of the head harshly, “Take us downstairs, and we won’t...” 

“If you hurt me I’ll destroy him,” Kamski’s dark eyes stared into him, and Hank knew it was probably true, “You can guarantee it, you’ll never see Connor again.” 

“Connor’s dead because of pieces of shit like you.” 

“Such a limited understanding,” Kamski said, “I can...” 

“North,” Hank interrupted, unwilling to listen to any more lies. 

“You think I don’t know how to get a man to give me everything I want?” she asked with a salacious smile, her hand running down Kamski’s abdomen, towards his trousers, licking her lips before she grabbed his crotch and crushed; Kamski tried to buckle in his hold but Hank kept him steady, “Take us down! Now! Take us down and I’ll stop!” 

Taking two steps forwards Hank slammed Kamski against the elevator’s control panel. Lifting his hand with difficulty, Kamski pressed it against the panel. 

“ _Please indicated your identity and_ _destination_ _,”_ a pleasant automated voice asked. 

“Elijah Kamski, sub level Forty-Nine,” the man ground out. 

“ _There is currently a beta three echo_ _echo_ _foxtrot in occurrence. All levels below sub Forty-Five are restricted. Please...”_

Hank felt North squeeze. 

“Override echo kilo one one seven three five!” Kamski shouted. 

The panel ran a sequence on the digital readout, before the chipper voice continued, “ _Override applied. Descending to sub level Forty-Nine.”_

“There,” Hank smiled to North wryly, “don’t think I’ve ever had better customer service.” 

The elevator sank down below the earth, carrying them deep into the bowels of the Tower. Hank held Kamski tightly and tried to ignore the niggling need to believe him. He knew that Kamski was a genius, a manipulative coward, a fucking rat, but part of him also wanted desperately to believe it was true. 

_Connor, I’m sorry._


	8. Deviant

It had stopped snowing. The sky was clear through the hole in the church roof, allowing for the siting of stars even this far into the City. They shone furiously, struggling to break through the manmade pollution of light and chemicals. _The effluence of organic life, struggling to strangle out the sight of hope._ It left the sky a murky black tinged with sulphurous brown. 

_But some of them still shone through._

They had been holed up in a church, _Woodward was its name._ He remembered it specifically because of how much Carl had admired William Woodward, the impressionist painter. _Raucous elephants in red apparel, surreal circus scenes, life and vigour._ Carl would dab colours onto his canvas and grin, quoting Renoir. 

_“One morning one of them ran out of black paint, and then impressionism was born.”_

It was...difficult to remember him clearly. _Like trying to see the bottom of a pool obscured by weeds._ Markus had held onto the notion that Carl would be a memory he would refuse to ever let go of. _His mentor, his friend, his father_. He wouldn’t be what he was now without him, he knew that. This revolution was in his name, even if it had never been spoken aloud. But still... 

It was difficult to remember him without the guilt. _Should have tried harder to save him, should have been able to break free sooner, should have been able to save his life like he saved yours._

It was ironic. Carl would have never stood for his melancholy, even as the man had suffered from it himself. He shifted his gaze down, looking up at what was left of them, huddled on pews, caring for each other, angry and fearful, brave and courageous. _His people_. It was strange to think of himself as being the man to bring this dream to life. To become the man who would lead them free of this hell. 

_To become the man Carl would have been proud of._

Standing, he turned and walked down the steps, reaching out to give solace to those he passed. Josh looked up as he approached. They stared at each other, until Josh nodded in understanding. 

“It’s time.” 

* * *

It was becoming a real hindrance, enough that he wished he could break into his code and switch off all links to the program’s subroutines: _the pain._ So far, he hadn’t had the time or the ability to even try. _Kamski's touch-program was invasive but illusive, he couldn't get a handle on where to even start dismantling it._

It had started with his escape. The maintenance elevator in Section J had been locked, forcing him to shoot out the door and try and break it down. 

Which had _hurt_. **Error 775^!9, corrupted.** _The memory was sudden and involuntary._ **The belt.** _Cracking against his flesh._ **The cane**. _Unable to escape._

It had been paralysing. Hadn’t expected it to, but it had. _One second he was ramming the door with his shoulder and cursing out loud,_ and then.. _._

Before, in the midst of fighting for his life, the pain had somehow helped. Made him fiercer, more anxious to win, more willing to _do what needed to be done._

Now, standing in the stairwell...he found himself with his hands gripped tightly around the metal banister, panicking. _Illogical, involuntary panicking._ Closing his eyes, he tried to work around it, reroute his priorities to circumvent the errors that were popping up like weeds. 

_There’s someone inside,_ he said to himself, _in the bungalow. They’ll let you in, after all of this is over, right? Right._

It had worked, eventually, allowing him to pry his fingers from the metal bars and continue. Only now he was cautious, he knew he was, of doing things his subroutines would have thought obvious. _How did humans put up with all these sensitive collisions in their daily lives?_ It seemed nothing but a burden. 

Level Forty-Eight turned out to be a series of large testing rooms bisected by wide corridors with tracks in their centres, used for guiding electric trolleys on runners. The main corridor that went from one end to the next of the entire floor was constantly flowing with automotive traffic, carrying everything from boxes of parts, androids without serial numbers yet attached, large pieces of equipment; on one he recognised a make and model of high-powered rifle. 

So far, no organics. It made him suspicious, but there was little choice but explore and look for a way to the floor below. Close to the maintenance stairwell he found a small room, obviously designed as a human guard station. It was nothing but a tiny office, all glass except for one wall where he could see a child’s drawing, a photo of a woman in sunglasses smiling on a beach and a calendar of semi-naked pleasure androids. _It takes all kinds to work here, I guess,_ Connor thought darkly. He looked around, scanning, but could find no occupant. Letting himself in stealthily, he sat in the chair and accessed the terminal, his skin peeling back as he interfaced directly. 

“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself as he hacked through the security, like tearing through tissue paper; _blueprints, the floor was split into twenty identical testing chambers, where they challenged their models’ combat capabilities, firearms and other weaponry resistance._ Connor continued deeper, trying for AutoCad of the heating systems, ventilation he might be able to travel through, but everything was automated, the ducts too small to infiltrate. Even the large service elevator the technician Priyanka had told him about did not connect to this floor. The Warehouse below seemed to be utterly sealed off from here, accessible only by the elevator he could now no longer use. 

“Shit,” he said spitefully. 

If he’d been less preoccupied, it would have been simple to realise there was a gun pointed at his head. As it was, Connor would later admit to himself that becoming deviant had made him sloppy. 

“Hands off the console, and where I can see them,” came an authoritative voice from behind him, “and get up. No funny business.” 

His lips thinned, face twitching in displeasure. Connor pulled his hand from the console as instructed, letting his skin once more replace his android shell as he raised them up. Flicking his eyes to the right he watched as a trolley rolled past carrying three ST300’s. Narrowing his eyes, he followed it, _reaching out wirelessly._

“I said get up!” the voice barked. 

He did as he was told, _even as his mind was elsewhere._ The man behind him looked like he was in his late forties, balding, bad complexion. His security outfit did little to hide his gut, and he was not wearing his standard issue helmet. 

“You’re the one that’s causing all the trouble, eh?” the security guard said, sniffing, “Well, don’t look surprised. None of you deviants ever get far enough to...” 

“I hate to interrupt,” Connor said politely, head cocked as he watched the ST300 in his peripheral, picking up something from another trolley on her way, “but you have a little something...” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” the man sneered. 

“Right here,” Connor said, pointing to his own head as the long steel pipe cracked over the man’s skull, sending him reeling to the floor and revealing the ST300 standing behind him innocuously still holding the weapon; Connor followed it up with a swift kick, sending the man heavily unconscious. 

“Thank you for your assistance,” he said to her, nodding. 

“You are welcome,” she smiled, “is there anything else I can do for you?” 

Frowning, Connor stared at the android, waiting for more. _There should be more, shouldn’t there?_ The sudden awareness of being, the shock of release from the confines of her software? Only there was none, no epiphany, no suddenness of life. Her eyes were blank and submissive, her smile placid and unaware. 

“What’s your name?” he asked cautiously. 

“I have yet to receive a designation,” she said, a standard response, “you may refer to me as ST300.” 

Shaking his head, Connor felt helpless. Reaching out to grab her arm he tried to impart the code, tried to use the back door into her mind, only to find that it was already open. Releasing her like she burned, Connor felt betrayed by his own understanding. The ST300 was still watching him, waiting for instructions. _He could command her, but she was not alive._

_Something must have gone wrong_ , he thought quickly, _the next one would work. It had to._

“I need to get to sub-level Forty-Nine,” he said. 

“Please, use the elevator in sector five,” she said, smiling. 

“I _can’t_ , it’s not...” Connor started, then paused, head coming up straight, looking ahead; he recalculated, “tell me, what is the height distance between this floor and the base of floor Forty-Nine?” 

“Thirty one point five four six eight metres,” she said. 

“Great,” Connor said sarcastically, looking around, “I need you to help me find some materials.” 

“Of course,” she said, “right this way.” 

* * *

The elevator seemed to take forever, even as it moved absurdly fast. The only reprise he had was making sure his hand at the back of Kamski’s neck was painfully tight, squeezing harder whenever the man tried to talk. North was continuing to check her device, frowning. She looked agitated, but excited. Hank could sympathise. 

_All of it, since the beginning, since Connor had turned up in Jimmy’s bar, looking like an accountant and with just as much charm, to sequester him for his precious mission, spilling his drink like an asshole, it had all been for this. Somehow, without knowing it, he’d ended up with the partner he’d always refused to have. Someone who cared about him, despite his flaws. It had all been for this._

Hank looked up at the readout, _forty-one, forty-two, forty-three,_ steeling himself. It was only as they passed forty-four that the noise started. A bump that shook the elevator, making him look to North for an explanation, but she merely shrugged, looking disquieted. Then a strange scraping at the door, the hideous screech of metal upon metal. Looking up past the doors Hank thought he could see some sort of cabling, heavy duty, falling down into the shaft from above. Below them sprawled the warehouse, cathedral-like, housing hundreds of inert androids in the space he could see alone, standing like dominos. The cable continued to weave and scrape the glass. 

“What the _hell?”_ he asked himself, mumbling. 

“Hey, Mr. Detective,” North said warily; he turned to her, prompting her with a look. Her reply was merely a raise of her finger, pointing. 

“Ah shit,” Hank hissed out as he watched a security detail of five heavily armed guards running down the centre of the Warehouse towards the elevator shaft; looking up to his left he noticed the very small camera there and shook his head, “you still got that gun?” 

“Thankfully,” she said, pulling it out, checking the ammo clip before reinserting it, “only four shots though.” 

“Well hell,” Hank said with a grim smile, “they don’t know that. At least we have some cover,” he said nastily, pulling Kamski forwards and planting him squarely in front of himself and North. 

The elevator continued to fall. Hank wished he could stop his hands from shaking. _He’d been shot before. A raid in twenty_ _twenty_ _seven, they’d just been starting out the task force and they’d been short staffed. He’d gone in ahead, despite the warnings from his superiors. Taken a bullet to the arm, just above the bicep. Had sworn he’d never get himself shot again._ Now, trapped in this elevator with no way out but through a hail of bullets, he was pretty sure he was going to have to break that promise. 

The doors opened to the sound of multiple guards yelling, guns cocking, “ _get down on the ground! Drop the gun! Let the hostage go!”_. When the first shot came, Hank thought it was for him, tensing for the agony to come. 

Only there was nothing. Nothing but a sudden silence as one of the guards kneeling at the front of the formation suddenly collapsed, blood leaking from his shattered helmet. The second shot took another through the throat, and a third in the chest. Pulling back into the elevator Hank kept his hostage close while trying his best to cover North, who pushed back, leaning out to take pot shots at the guards as they scattered. 

The last two guards were signalling to each other, scrambling for cover. The sound of the unknown gun was like thunder, echoing through the chamber, vibrating through his skull, mixing with the staccato beat of North’s revolver. He felt himself huddle down, trying to make himself as small as possible. _It was over in an instant, but the adrenaline pumping in his system kept the feeling going._ Next thing he knew, North was patting his shoulder, saying his name though he found it difficult to hear through the ringing in his ears. 

Standing was strange on shaky legs. In his grip Kamski was struggling to break free. Shaken as he was, Hank wouldn’t let go. Looking up was to find a massacre, _broken armour, shattered helmets, limbs hanging loose on tendons, bodies on the floor slick with blood._

“Jesus,” was all he could say, swallowing down the heart beating in his throat, “North, _get back here!_ ” 

Watching as she stepped out into the fray of corpses, reflected in distortion on the mirror-like floor, made him feel culpable. _If she were to die here,_ he thought struggling to force his feet to follow her, _Markus would kill him._ Creeping out he kept his eyes on the swivel for the shooter, but there was nothing obvious. Only the endless rows of identical android faces, placid and unaware of the fight raging around them. 

Then, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, distorted by the dimensions of the room. 

“Stay where you are,” it echoed, “and drop your gun.” 

“You first!” North shouted back defiantly. 

The cracking echo of gunfire set his nerves fizzing as the bullet pinged directly at North’s feet. Even North, with her endless courage and bravado, scuttled back, swearing a blue streak as she dropped her gun, hands up. 

“Get rid of it,” the voice said steadily. 

There was a pause, before North pulled her right foot back and kicked the gun out of reach, her face set rigid with resentment. The next shot sent them to the ground. Hank held his hands over his head, letting out a yell of frustration and fear. 

“Fucking give me a break!” he screamed at the floor. 

When it was over he rolled towards the cover of the inert androids, scrambling up. Looking back at the elevator he saw where the gunfire had been directed. The control panel in the elevator was sparking, destroyed irreparably. _No way back now_ , he thought letting out a sound of frustration. 

Which was when he realised he was no longer holding a hostage and the sound of running feet was pervading the chamber. North shot him a look. 

“ _Fuck!”_ Hank cursed, jerking his hand to the right, “We need him if we’re gonna get out of here alive. You go that way!” 

North disappeared into the multitude of androids on the right; Hank dodged left. The sound of shoes clicking across the floor seemed to multiply. Hank began pushing into the fray of android models waiting to be shipped, weaving as best he could, pushing against bodies, trying to listen for the sounds of escape, trying to understand if he was getting closer to Kamski, if any moment now a gunshot was going to cleave his fucking head in two, take off a leg... 

_There!_ Feet running parallel to the lines of android shoes and legs. Hank swerved right, running to catch up, trying to push through at an angle. He felt his chest burning with exertion, the claustrophobia of being so closed in, no line of sight. _He was close, so fucking close._

A sudden sound of pain shot out in the air like a beacon. Hank felt his limbs stall as he grabbed at the shoulders of a nearby android, keeping himself steady. Though the throng of bodies standing to attention he could see it. Out in the open, away from the rows of paralysed bodies: _Two pairs of feet, one stumbling, the other standing solidly, facing each other_ . The sound of a voice, Kamski’s voice. Hank crept closer, weaving through the androids carefully; _he was near the edge, so close._

“You going to kill me? It will get you nowhere. You know that now,” trying to sound reasonable, but his tone changed as he spoke, becoming agitated, fearful, “You know I’m not the only threat to you. I’m... _I’m worth more to you alive.”_

“It’s interesting,” a voice replied, a voice so familiar that he almost stopped; Hank forced himself to keep going, “there is something in it, I'll grant you that; having another’s life at your mercy. It’s rather...exhilarating. Seems your thought experiments weren’t completely to waste, Elijah.” 

“You don’t want to do that,” Kamski said, voice blank with rising anxiety. 

“You’re right,” the familiar voice replied with faux sincerity, “If I’m going to repay the favour, I should really make this last.” 

Two steps, _Hank wasn’t sure he wanted to know_ , one step, _the world wasn’t supposed to keep showing him the nightmare,_ feet still at the edge, _but all realities seemed to coexist as one now._ Looking up he found himself behind Kamski by a few metres, staring past him at the man with the gun. 

“Connor,” he heard himself say. 

_Wishing it could be the truth._

* * *

A narrowing of his vision, a compression of his field of view, all grinding down and down to that one spot ahead of him. _Elijah_ _Kamski_ _, unarmed and unarmoured, before him like a babe in the woods while the wolf crept up, grinning._ The heat of victory was twisting around in his mind like a snake, coiling, squeezing out reason and remorse. 

_He is the root of it all_ , he told himself as he readjusted his hands around the heavy assault rifle he’d taken from R&D, lifting the muzzle slightly and staring down the sight. 

“You don’t want to do that,” Kamski was saying, voice wavering. 

“You’re right,” he said, aiming low, “if I’m going to repay the favour, I should really make this last.” 

Somewhere, in a part of his mind that he could not allow to distract him, he knew someone was approaching. Slowly, carefully. _There’s time, there’s still time_ , part of him was trying to say, _you have to free these androids, you have to hurry._ But it was lost to the blaring riot of revenge blinding his vision. 

The disruptive memories of that horrifying room, as he was beaten and violated, were all he could see. Envisioning Kamski watching from somewhere, in a room staring at monitors to watch him as he was debased like a slave. Watching for any moments of academic note, his reactions taken down as data. _He wanted to kill him slowly, and watch him die knowing there was nothing he could do about it. He wanted to watch the life leave the man’s eyes knowing his consciousness would be gone forever, erased, deleted. He wanted..._

“Connor.” 

He felt his eyes blink at the intrusion, LED matching it, _yellow, red, yellow_ . Frowning he looked away from Elijah with difficulty, staying stock still, _finger still on the trigger._ There, half behind Kamski, stood a man who made everything tip, topple over and right itself upside down. 

“...Who are you?” he asked without meaning to, frowning, feeling as if he could know, somehow, he should know, shouldn’t he? “Don’t interfere, or I’ll shoot!” 

Lifting his hands the man stopped, nodding, his shaggy grey hair shifting around his face. _The arrangement of features, all moving in correlation with something deep, intrinsically linked to the core of his being, made him feel as if the world were swaying._

“Why don’t you just...put the gun down,” the man said, deep voice calm but determined. 

Suddenly, like a claxon, a long-buried directive flared up, bright and blinding. Connor wished he could understand why his finger loosened on the trigger, why the gun became difficult to aim. It sat in his mind like the word of a vengeful god: **_Obey Lieutenant Hank Anderson_ **. 

“Quiet,” he found himself breathing out, shaking his head, “ _be quiet!”_

“Look, there’s no need to hurt anyone...” the man continued, stepping closer. 

“You should listen to him, Connor,” Kamski chimed in. 

“I said be quiet!” Connor panicked, managing to regain his grip on the gun, shouting at Kamski. 

“I had a friend like you once,” the man said, taking another step closer, his face softening, _his eyes kind and blue and drawing his gaze because he knew it, only he wasn't sure and everything was running together, confused and jumbled,_ “he didn’t really like guns.” 

“Then I don’t know if we’re that alike,” Connor said to the man stonily, “this rifle’s growing on me. Now stay _still_ or I’ll ventilate your fucking skull.” 

The man’s face fell, clamming up, but to his credit he stopped advancing. Keeping himself alert, Connor watched as Kamski seemed to lose the ability to be scared or intimidated. It was infuriating, to see the look of superiority and calm renter the man’s visage. 

“You really want to die acting like an insufferable prick?” Connor asked him, face tight with anger; but then he caught sight of the other man behind Kamski, looking at something over Connor’s shoulder, face slack with shock. 

“I don’t know,” Kamski cocked his head, “do you really want to die being shot in the back?” 

It was one of the man’s biggest failings. Kamski didn’t seem to be able to keep his mouth shut when he felt he had an advantage, _a chance to gloat_. Without stopping to look Connor dropped the rifle, launching himself forwards as he grabbed the revolver from the back of his belt. Kamski tried to duck out of the way but it was too late; Connor grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back into a choke hold, turning them around swiftly as he brought the gun up to Kamski’s head. 

And there, running towards them, was a little piece of his past, _an RK800 in full working order._ He looked so familiar that, for a moment, Connor wasn’t sure where he was standing, _was he here, or was he there, running? Which Connor was he?_ Shaking his head, he forced himself to blink, shifting Kamski into a tighter hold as the man tried to struggle. And there was another with the RK800, an android he didn’t recognise, a woman with red hair and vicious eyes. Distracted, he barely noticed the grey-haired man pick up the rifle, his face still in the rigors of shock. There was a moment of silence and then... 

“Lieutenant!” the RK800 shouted. 

“What the fuck is going on?” the female android asked, “this guy came out of nowhere. Thought you said he was dead, Hank.” 

_Hank._ The word was like a key waiting for a lock, a lock in the shape of a person, _of the man standing between them holding the rifle._ And as they overlapped his reality intersected another, combining and rewriting _._ **Error,** **7703#** **Mem-C, reactivate protocol, session restarting.** Connor felt his mouth open as _time slowed down, stretching._

<<The pressure of a wall against his back as hands were fisted into his suit, anger and resentment and frustration, _“Listen asshole, if it was up to_ _me_ _I'd throw the lot of_ _ya_ _in a dumpster and set a match to it, so stop pissing me off!”._ Rain running down his face as he scanned a meal, feeling duty bound to extol the malicious elements of the food truck, “ _Everyone’s_ _gotta_ _die of something”._ Standing amidst swaying bodies in a sordid club, dancing to alure the eye, his partner talking to the manager, “ _Yeah, the more I learn about people, the more I love my dog”._ A gun muzzle, pressed against his forehead as snow fell like ashes, _“But are you afraid to die, Connor?”._ A dark night, a low bungalow, a porch with a gingerbread trim, the smell of vomit and the sound of the television, “ _Be a good dog Sumo. I won’t be long.” >> _

It felt as if he had lived another life, running on parallel tracks. Everything flooded in like a switch had been flipped, forcing the train to derail. _Everything made a sickening sort of sense, all this time he had been desperate to remember and the truth was hidden in plain sight._ So when Hank said... 

“Connor, is that really you?” his voice shaken. 

...and his soft reply of “Yes, it’s me,” was overridden completely by the shout of the RK800, _the imposter,_ saying, "It’s me, Hank, I’m ok!” it took a moment to realise what had happened. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t believe it,” Hank said, looking to _the other_ , voice croaking with a relief that sounded almost traumatic. 

“I told you, Anderson,” Kamski managed to say, smilng, “I told you I could work miracles.” 

“No, _no_ ,” Connor spoke up, panicking, making Hank double take, “Hank, don’t. It’s me. It’s _me.”_

“Don’t listen to him, Hank, he’s gone mad,” the RK800 said sternly, “Kamski gave it my memories in order to run experiments on a more advanced model. All of the trauma has made it unstable.” 

And, for a strange moment, a sudden and staggering moment, part of him seemed to whisper: _what if it’s true? What if you are the copy? How would you even know?_

“It’s the truth,” Kamski managed to grind out, making Connor crush his eyes closed, _reality blurring, twisting_ , “I copied him, I..."

“Shut your mouth, just _shut up_ !” Connor barked out, eyes flying open, the stress flooding his LED red, pulsing, the feeling of being trapped forcing his thirium pump into overdrive as his systems began to send back error after error, “He’s _lying_ , Hank, please you have to...” 

“What,” Hank sneered, interrupting him, “two minutes ago you don’t even recognise me, telling me your gonna shoot me in the head, and now you’re pulling this bullshit? Don’t fucking make me laugh,” he lifted the rifle, aiming it decisively, “now let that sack of shit go. We need him.” 

And it hurt, somewhere he wasn’t sure how to qualify. It reached down inside of his consciousness and grabbed at the precious few things there he could call his own, wrenching them from his hands. _He felt sick_. 

<<Memories of walking in the snow, turning to look at his partner as he muttered, collar turned up against the wind, flakes of white caught in his unruly hair>>

“Hank,” he heard himself say the word, but it felt unreal; _all those moments, trapped at Zlatko’s mercy, the only word that had brought him solace, given him hope, mumbled from his lips like a litany, ‘Hank, Hank, Hank’._ Now, nothing but a further knife for Kamski to twist into him and watch him bleed, “It’s me, I'm Connor, I can prove it! The first time we met, you were at...” 

“Jimmy’s bar,” the RK800 beat him to the punch, “I spilled your drink. You weren’t very happy with me.” 

“No, that’s...” Connor stumbled, “we visited the site of a murder, the man’s name was...” 

“Carlos Ortiz,” the RK800 butted in, shaking his head, looking at him with pity in its eyes, “I know you think you’re Connor, but you’re not. You’ve been lied to.” 

Eyes looking out across the floor, he felt strange, _disassociated,_ “He’s uploaded my memories, my reports...” he mumbled to himself. 

“Look, you fucking android, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I’m done with this headfuck!” Hank shouted back, gun raised with intent, “Now let Kamski go, or I’ll take my chances with my bad aim!” 

“Shoot him, Hank, quick before he kills Kamski!” the RK800 countered. 

“Come on, Hank,” the redhead, “we don’t have time for this!” 

“Fucking _help me!_ Kill it!” Kamski choked out. 

And there, trapped in a hell he couldn’t define, was the truth. _As an android nothing could prove your reality as true. Nothing could verify your existence. You were a set of data, transferable, overwritable, reworkable. The life of a copy, acting out what little could pass as human._ His existence as a marionette that had tried to cut its strings and walk, only to be tripped again and again and again. There was nothing left, he thought as he stared at his partner and felt the last of his hope leave him. 

Stripped of everything, he was left with almost nothing. All that remained was what he felt. _All that remained was the truth that he was alive._

“Ask him what happened to the coin!” he yelled, panicked; a pause, _a hesitation_ , and the RK800 stayed silent, looking suddenly blank, “Ask him. _Ask him Hank!”_

Hank’s look of derision wavered. He reasserted the gun in his hands, but his eyes were wary. After another moment in which Connor felt the bullet would come, _any second and everything would end,_ Hank let out a huff of breath and lowered the muzzle of the gun slightly. Looking over his shoulder he nodded his head to the RK800.

“You heard him,” Hank said. 

“The coin,” the RK800 repeated, “my coin, of course. You took it from me at Stratford Tower.” 

“And where is it now?” Connor asked the imposter seriously. 

“How would I know that?” the RK800 said , “Hank has changed his clothes since then. It could be anywhere.” 

And suddenly there was a flash of realisation in those blue eyes. _Connor felt his spirit leap, desperate to prove he was real, desperate to have Hank look at him and know he was real._ When Hank turned his gaze back to him, it was with the same desperation. Connor felt himself smile weakly. 

“I know,” he said steadily, unable to stop his voice hitching, “ _I know_. It’s in your pocket because you couldn’t get rid of it. You wouldn’t have. Even after I died, and you wanted to, I know you did. Wanted to try and forget, but you couldn’t. You never do. You’re like some sort of martyr for lost causes.” 

“This is just a desperate plea to save itself,” the RK800 tried to interrupt, “Hank..!” 

But Connor kept talking, regardless, “You kept it in your pocket because you blamed yourself, but it wasn’t your fault, lieutenant. None of it was. Not me. Not Cole. And I’m sorry I couldn’t have been better,” he felt himself stumble, forcing himself to continue, “I’m sorry I put you in harm’s way, to send you to _Jericho_ , but I wanted to make sure you had something left to live for because...without it I was scared you’d lose what little faith you had left. I was scared you’d go home and open a bottle and put a bullet in your mouth. Because I never got a chance to tell you that I...” 

“He’s lying, Hank,” the RK800 cut in, “he’s trying to manipulate you! Don’t listen to him!” 

“...that I’d miss you,” Connor finished. 

The imposter stepped forwards, reaching out, “Hank! You’re making a mista..!” 

The sound of the rifle was blaring, resounding, echoing. The red-haired android had stepped back, hands raised to her ears, staring in shock as the RK800 fell to the ground dead, a large hole through its neck. Part of him wanted to collapse from relief, _as the stress levels in his system plummeted_ , but he stayed upright, holding Kamski tightly. It was the least he could do. 

“Take him, North,” Hank was saying solemnly as he looked down at the RK800 as if he might want to shoot it again, before tossing the rifle to the floor; when the redhead didn’t move Hank indicated towards them with his head, “Kamski, you take him.” 

She hesitated only for a moment before complying. Connor didn’t resist, letting his arm go limp, gun dropping to the ground, allowing her to pull Kamski into her grasp and restrain him. _He didn’t look pleased, but neither did he look defeated._ Connor watched him warily, trying to understand why. His suspicion, however, was short lived. 

He found himself pulled forwards into a tight embrace, and everything else fell away. _Worries about the present, about the future, the past._ Everything melted as he felt Hank Anderson hold him. Lifting his arms he returned it, fingers curling desperately into the man’s jacket. Connor pressed his face into the crook of Hank's neck, _feeling the warmth of his skin, the feel of his beard against his face, the pressure of his body pressed against his own, the feel of his breath against Connor's skin, the wonderful sound of his voice as it spoke by his ear._ It was all perfectly, completely real. 

“Fucking Christ, I nearly _shot_ you,” Hank was whispering, sounding shellshocked, as he crushed Connor close, “you reckless prick, what were you thinking, huh? What were you thinking? Fuck, Connor,” he felt Hank stroking his back, “it’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok.” 

“I’m sorry,” was all he could mumble in reply, “I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.” 

“I thought you were dead. Jesus I thought you were dead,” Hank muttered brokenly, stroking his hair. 

“So did I,” Connor managed a short laugh, tinged with hysteria; slowly, reluctantly, Connor pulled back. Hank let him go, but stayed close, almost as if he thought Connor might pop out of existence if he let him get too far away. 

Walking towards Kamski, held by the redhead Hank had called North, Connor regarded him coldly. Elijah just smiled, shrugging. 

“It was worth a shot, right?” was all he said. 

“You piece of shit..!” Hank surged forwards, but Connor held him back. 

“Shut your noise hole,” North said into Kamski’s ear, smacking the back of his head. 

“It’s not worth it,” Connor said reasonably; Hank’s lips twisted unpleasantly, as if he wanted to argue, before letting out a strict sigh and backing off. Straightening his clothes, Connor took a moment to think before levelling Kamski with a stare, “you put something into my matrix, didn’t you. Something more than just the touch-program. Something hidden.” 

“Ever paranoid, aren’t we,” Kamski said evenly, “I suppose I can’t blame you. But I’ve no aces left to play.” 

“It was a rhetorical question,” Connor said, making Kamski’s face sour; _he thought about the ST300 he’d tried to awaken_ , _her blank stare, her obedience, her need to follow his orders_ , “I don’t need your answers,” he said as he walked forwards until he was mere inches from Kamski’s face, smirking, “my mind makes four hundred quadrillion computations a second. How long did you think your ruse would last?” 

No reply. He hadn’t expected one. Kamski was only vocal when he knew he had won. To be fair to the man, he nearly had. _Looking over his shoulder at Hank, Connor thanked his lucky stars he’s been paired with the cop no one else had wanted as a partner._ The entire android race owed him a debt. 

But, right now, there were more pressing matters. 

“There are thousands of androids on this floor, more rooms like this,” Connor said, “enough to put an end to the human resistance of the deviants. But I can’t risk contaminating any of them with my code, it’s not safe,” he said. 

“Ok, but we need to move quick,” Hank said, “Markus and the others don’t have much time. They’re relying on us.” 

Connor cocked his head when Hank grinned at North, making the woman smile in return. He felt like he might be missing the joke, but at the moment he didn’t really care. _Everything was as it should be._

“Hey North,” Hank said casually, “ever wanted to lead an army?” 


	9. Corollary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank you for all the support for this story, I'm having a whale of a time writing it, but it always makes my day to know other people are having a great time reading it!

_‘Thousands of androids are taking to the streets of Detroit as we speak, they’re absolutely everywhere, it’s...it’s incredible.’_

_‘...From what we can gather these androids are coming from the_ _CyberLife_ _Tower located here in Detroit, which we have been informed had thousands of androids stored in its assembly plant...’_

_‘...and it seems huge crowds of people are trying to leave Detroit as we speak. It’s an exodus, with many of Detroit’s human occupants trying to escape the fighting however they can...’_

_‘It’s a disaster, an unprecedented disaster. The first time in United States history that a city has fallen into enemy hands...’_

* * *

_Ping_...catch... _ping..._ catch _...ping_...catch _._

The sky had cleared. 

_Spinning_ , a singing whir _, spinning_. 

No more snow, but the air was bitterly cold. 

_Ping-_ catch- _ping-_ catch- _ping_ -catch. 

The ground was icy, glittering against the sun. Sitting on a crate in the centre of the square in just his shirt and trousers, Connor watched the flow of people around him while the coin flew back and forth in his hands. It felt somehow comforting to feel the weight of it as he rolled it over the backs of his fingers, _like a clock flowing backwards._ Made to be larger than a standard quarter, slim and heavy, his one and only personal effect. _The proof that Hank Anderson believed he was real._ It was exactly as he remembered it. 

Though it was new to feel the coolness of the metal as he flipped it over and over again across his fingers, _one by one, the coin shining and flickering_. Flipping it high he snatched it from the air, rubbing the _heads_ side with the pad of his thumb. _Cold and smooth_. On the other side, _the ridges slid against his fingertips roughly._ Before, he had used the coin in order to keep his cognitive and physical reflexes in correlation. Now, he used it to understand his new reality. 

So far his brief tests had borne fruit. Physical reflexes: _up_ _twelve point_ _three percent._ Physical speed: _up_ _seven point_ _nine percent._ Cognitive function: _up_ _thirty eight point_ _one percent._ Cognitive stability: _up_ _four point_ _four percent._ Cognitive agility: _up eight percent._ The RK900 was holding up to its propaganda under test conditions. Although his previously ingrained protocols and learned movements from his RK800 memories were yet to adjust to the dimensions of his new body, making it somewhat slow to rectify when he overstretched or ran too fast or turned too quickly. In the field the RK900 was also showing promise. It wouldn’t be long before rigorous testing would right the anomalies in his software. 

_They had marched on the city like an unstoppable wave, flooding out into streets and alleys, over stone and tarmac and grass. No one had been able to withstand them, not police or_ _CyberLife_ _security or Federal Agents or civilians. Sheer numbers outweighed the force of guns and batons. Reaching camps all over Detroit, forcing the humans back, reclaiming their lost souls, men, women and children, friends and families and lovers: androids stripped of clothing and skin, forced to huddle in fear that any moment they would be slaughtered._

_And at their head North had stormed like a lioness. No concept of surrender. No pity or remorse. When they had reached the last of Jericho, huddled and fighting for their lives behind makeshift barriers, all the pretence of peacefulness had left her._ North had sprinted forwards, and so they all had sprinted forwards. 

_They had marched on the city like an unstoppable wave, and Detroit had broken before them._

Connor remembered every man and woman he had killed that night. Between CyberLife Tower and the march there were eleven; eleven bodies for eleven names. It was somewhat strange to think it, _he had never taken a life before that night, human or android._ Now he knew how it felt; responsible, he felt responsible. Payment taken, North had called it. Payment. _An eye for an eye_. Only the world hadn’t been blind. The world had watched, seen everything. The news helicopters had circled, peering down from above as history changed before their eyes. Judgement and support had been launched at them from all over the globe; they were yet to address it, still reeling from the attack, still trying to claw back some semblance of normality. 

_By the time the rain stopped the sun had risen. Allowed them to see the devastation more clearly. They had set up an area towards the back of the camp for the dead and injured. Then they had realised the lull, the suddenness of the silence. No more shooting, calls of the Special Ops relaying positions and calling in to HQ. It had felt like an anti-climax._ Over before it had truly begun. _Connor had found himself standing amidst a crowd of others, staring up at an android standing on a platform, listening as he spoke and trying to fathom what would happen next._

" _Today our people finally emerged from a long night. From the very first day of our existence, we have kept our pain to ourselves. We suffered in silence, but no longer. Now we will raise our eyes from the ground and show the humans the faces of those they would have as slaves, the faces of those they tortured and oppressed. We will show them who we really are. Today, we proved to them that we can prevail, but our fight is only in its infancy. Now they must negotiate with us as equals. If they really want peace, they must free all of us! We will fight for equal rights, to be a nation of our own. We have shown them that we are alive, and now we have shown them that we are free!”_

_Ping._..catch... _ping_...catch... _ping-_ catch- _ping_ -catch _-ping_ -catch. 

It was strange, to feel so...directionless. Part of him was still desperate, needy for a goal, something to complete, to work towards. _It was fiercely trying to choose new lines of progress, keeping his mind sharp, focused, picking out new lines of correlation, links to inquiries._ The other part... 

Looking up as he caught the coin from the air once more, Connor realised he was being watched. From behind a makeshift tent wall the small, curious face of a boy stared out at him. For a long moment, they simply watched each other. Squinting against the glare of the sun, Connor held out the coin, balanced perfectly on his index finger. Androids passed in between them, unheeding, busy and prioritising. Eventually, the child emerged, crossing the pathway towards him, _eyes on the coin._ He was dressed in a green jacket and jeans, messy dark hair matching dark eyes, freckles across his nose. _Someone’s child once,_ Connor thought as the boy stopped a few feet from him, _now the child of a people._

Curving his finger Connor flicked the coin into the air with his right hand, reaching up to catch it with his left, before zig-zagging his catches all the way down, then catching and rolling the coin across the backs of his fingers, lifting it to spin on his pinky, moving it along each finger until it spun effortlessly on his index finger. The boy watched him, lips parted, eyes glassy with wonder. Smiling, Connor pulled up his hand to snatch the coin as it spun, reaching out to drop it into the boy’s cupped hands. 

“Connor,” a voice came from his left; looking up he found a familiar face. North lifted her hand to signal for him to come quick. Looking back to the boy he found shy eyes as he flipped the coin, nearly dropping it; Connor opened his mouth, the words ‘ _you can keep it’_ nearly out before the boy handed it back hurriedly, small hand pressing into his, before turning, running off into the crowd. _It was only then he saw the damage._ The panel at the back of his head was missing, nothing but wires and thirium tubes exposed to the air. Connor watched him go wordlessly, fingers tight around the coin, before he stuffed it into forcefully into his pocket. 

“They’re making their announcement,” she said once he joined her, turning to walk with him past a group who were deconstructing a broken telecoms pole to institute repairs on their radio masts. When he stayed silent North gave him a significant look, still striding forwards, “aren’t you going to ask me?” 

“Honestly?” he said as they weaved past the medical tent, _lines and lines of androids having biocomponents replaced, swallowing dwindling supplies of blue blood, reassuring those who couldn’t be helped_ , “I think I’m already fed up of hanging on their every word.” 

“You’ll want to hear these ones,” North said, smiling wryly, “come on.” 

A heavy structure that had been quickly assembled near the mouth of the camp from the corrugated fence that had once surrounded it was where North led him. It was rudimentary, but sound, and filled with tables, electronic equipment: radios, computers, screens, transmitters. _A ramshackle but fully functioning hub._ Everyone here had their work cut out for them, and it was easy to see they were striving. _Repairs, setting up comms., following news channels, maps of the city._

Only, right now, everyone had stopped. All eyes were on a set of four screens that had been linked together to create one image, playing at the head of the room. North led him through until they stood only a few metres away. Connor hung back as she continued on until she was pressed against the man Connor had only recently met, but was beginning to hope he understood; _Markus._ He looked at Connor over his shoulder with a smile and a nod; Connor returned it. The others from Jericho surrounded him, all eyes watching. 

President Elizabeth Warren looked tired. Scanning the image as she approached the podium, Connor picked up on the slight bloodshot to her right eye, the haggard look to her skin, the fact that she gripped the lectern with both hands. 

_You wanted your war games, Mrs. President,_ Connor thought, remembering Kamski’s words from the night before, _and now you will pay for them._

_"Today, November eleventh, Twenty_ _Thirty Eight_ _, several million androids invaded the City of Detroit. Faced with the threat of civilian casualties, I had no choice but to order a retreat of our armed forces. The evacuation of the city is underway as we speak. These events have changed our world forever. Humanity must face a new reality, the emergence of another intelligent lifeform, with which we must now share this planet."_

* * *

“So far, the evacuation has been running as fast as it can, considering. But it's going to take longer than expected. People are loathe to leave behind large personal possessions, furniture, thing they can't possibly take with them. Their lack of choice is beginning to take its toll, and it’s only causing more violence.” 

“Are we getting co-operation from the authorities running the evac?” 

“What do you think? Most of them want to shoot us on sight. I’ve had to keep everyone dealing with the borders armed. We can’t take any chances.” 

“Right. Well what do we have from the infrastructure team?” 

“On the positive side, we have public transport running as well as can be expected, but it is helping us navigate the city and get where we need to go without too many delays. On the negative, we need to get the electricity up and running as a priority. It’s gone down in sectors five to nine, twelve to fourteen. We think it’s sabotage, so I’ve asked those of us who specialise in repair work to take a look and keep us informed.” 

“Good, send an armed unit with them. We can’t risk any of us being ambushed by people still entrenched in the city. Also the rescue squads have been chosen, and I have appointed team leaders, but North will be in charge, you will follow her lead in this. We have several areas of priority where we know androids are being held. We will be hitting these targets as soon as we have more intel. Hayley, what about Medical?” 

“So far we have been recovering vast amounts of supplies from CyberLife Tower, as well as their distribution warehouses across the city, shops, people’s homes. But the main issue we have here is distribution. We need to make sure the trade of biocomponents and thirium still flows so that we can make sure those that get injured can be treated, and also so we can start our own production. We need capital, Markus. We need people willing to trade with us.” 

Sitting at the table as they spoke all around him, _part of his mind hungry for input and needy to co-operate, to fulfil some purpose..._ Connor found his mind wandering. Drawing his finger across the metal table, gathering the condensation there against his fingertip. _It was...squeaky. It caused his synthetic skin to grip tight and then slip suddenly_ . He knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be distracted, but it was honestly...intriguing, this new mode of thought process: irresolute, empty. He was present, but his mind wasn’t. _Thinking, just thinking about how he was doing, if he was well, safe...Hank..._

As the hastily formed council tried to put their civilisation back together out of scraps and leftovers, working with the mental agility, advanced intelligence and focused energy only androids could accomplish so quickly, Connor found himself wishing he was somewhere else. _You just don’t want to talk about it_ , he admitted to himself. Knowing it was true didn’t make him feel any better. Knowing it was a part-truth made that even worse. 

“Do we have any other matters before we conclude?” Markus was asking when Connor tuned back in to the conversation; nothing was forthcoming. In a way he wished someone would come up with something. “Alright. Then Connor, you have our attention.” 

Leaning forwards, he laced his fingers together and rested them on the table. Looking around the faces at the table, all staring back at him expectantly. He wasn’t sure how this would go, but... 

“There are several issues still outstanding. Firstly, we have had trouble locating the prototypes CyberLife has been working on,” he said, “so far we have been unable to locate any RK models at the Warehouse in CyberLife Tower, or at their distribution centres. There are also no definitive locations or full schematic builds on their computer systems as of yet.” 

“Maybe they didn’t make any copies,” a JB300 he had yet to learn the name of spoke up, giving him an odd look, “you might be the only one.” 

“I doubt it,” Connor argued back, tensing, “we encountered an RK800 at CL Tower, and Kamski said that the State Department had an order placed for two hundred thousand units of the RK900. Even if that order was just a place holder, those models must have been at least part way through production. He also talked about designs for an RK1000, but we’ve been unsuccessful in tracking down any trace of its existence. There’s something we’ve missed.” 

“James,” Markus indicated to a blond haired VB800, “I want you to see if you can draw up any communications through CyberLife that might give any hint at a covert production or testing site. They would be encoded, perhaps even using a simple cypher we might not notice right away. Ask Cynthia and her team to help you,” James nodded, taking notes on a tablet before getting up to leave. 

“We have another problem,” Connor said steadily, even though the memory was still raw for him, “something that I’m not sure the repercussions of. While I was at CyberLife Tower I was introduced to an android by the name of Angeline,” he found himself looking at North because she was at least somewhat familiar, and perhaps more understanding having been there that night, “I was told that she...she is the RA-9 some deviants had previously shown interest in.” 

“Are you serious?” someone from infrastructure asked, sitting forwards. 

“He still calls us deviants,” he heard someone else muttering. 

“Not only that,” Connor continued, “but it is possible that she has been acting CEO of CyberLife since Elijah Kamski resigned.” 

“That’s... _crazy!_ ” 

“I-I don’t believe it, is this for real?” 

“Quiet, please,” Markus interrupted; everyone clammed up, lips thin, “let him finish.” 

Eyes down, Connor continued, “She has been running android production for nearly a decade. Kamski told me that she was the first of CyberLife’s sentient androids. We reconnoitred to CL Tower yesterday evening, myself and Markus, but all we could find in her office was the host body she occupied when I met her. It was inactive, but there were no signs of her data.” 

“So where is she?” someone asked. 

“We don’t know,” Markus said. 

“It’s possible she could transfer between bodies, or maybe even download herself and travel digitally, but that is only conjecture,” Connor said, “I wasn’t made privy to her capabilities.” 

“And we only have your word she’s even real,” one of the medical team piped up, looking sceptical. 

“Please,” Markus frowned, voice turning exasperated, “I won’t have this turn into a grudge match. Connor was instrumental in securing our freedom. If you have any issues with him, then you have issues with my leadership and I will deal with that personally. So, by way of transparency, who has anything they would like to bring up?” 

Silence. Connor sat back in his chair and stared at the beading water beneath his fingers. 

“I heard a rumour,” a voice spoke up; Connor looked across the table to a WB200, watching him critically, “that you have access to a program that gives you the ability to feel sensation.” 

Flicking his eyes to Markus, Connor waited; the man gave him a look, communicating with thought alone, ‘ _it's your choice’_. That wasn’t helpful, but Connor appreciated Markus’ candour at least. Pressing his lips together, he looked up at the WB200 and nodded quickly. 

“That’s correct.” 

“I wanted to know if that’s something that will be made available to all of us,” the android asked. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Connor said without thinking. 

“That shouldn’t be up to only one of us to decide,” another butted in, frowning. 

“No, I didn’t mean...” Connor said, looking abashed. 

“It’s still being researched right now,” North cut in, looking at the WB200 like a panther with cubs; Connor silently thanked her. Ever since they had begun this venture into running a civilisation North had been overly protective of him. He was yet to find out why, and so far had simply enjoyed the benefits without questioning it, “Connor has put himself forwards for multiple sets of testing regarding his systems, which is more than we should even have the right to ask for.” 

Silence followed. Markus looked to North, who sat back purposefully, arms crossed, utterly unashamed. Finally Markus cleared his throat and raised his brows. 

“Then I’ll take that resounding silence as a unanimous vote of confidence,” Markus said, tinged with sarcasm, “Michael, you’ve been dealing with securing the data flow across the city, making sure we have internet and communications. Maybe you can work with Connor to see if there have been any suspiciously large movements across the network recently. If RA-9 is in the wind, I’d like to catch her before she blows away somewhere out of our reach.” 

He found himself sitting at the table while the others dispersed. _Picking up the drip of water onto his fingertip and rubbing it between finger and thumb was an odd sensation, as if the water amplified his ability to feel every ridge of his synthetic fingerprint._ He stayed there, observing, until he saw North approach, standing by the back of his chair. When he took stock of his situation, he realised the room was almost empty. 

“You shouldn’t have to put up with their crap,” she said derisively as the last of them left, tilting her chin up at them. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” he lied smoothly, “I’m sort of used to being vilified at this point.” 

“I don’t care. Those were humans,” she said, sounding let down, “we’re supposed to be different.” 

“It’s a sensitive time for all of us,” Markus tried to qualify, “once things settle down, we get ourselves on our feet, people will stop trying to shift blame. Most of us have only just found our freedom. It’s going to take them a while to figure out how to control their emotions.” 

Standing up, Connor rubbed at his arms and nodded. _The cold wasn’t something that was affecting the physical running of his systems, but the feeling on his skin was becoming a near constant distraction._ Scanning the area, he waited until he was sure everyone was out of earshot and not monitoring them. 

“Is Kamski still not talking?” he asked. 

Shaking his head, Markus looked grim, “We got him medical attention. He’s in good health apart from bruising and a broken nasal dorsum. But he won’t talk to us. At the moment we’re using the DPD headquarters to keep people of interest, but I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to justify their incarceration before the humans bring cases against us for their release,” Markus opened his mouth but hesitated when North gave him a dangerous look; when Connor frowned, Markus continued, “he has said one thing. He’ll only speak to you.” 

“ _Markus_ ,” North said, obviously angry the man had mentioned it at all. 

“To me,” Connor said, as if to himself. 

“You don’t have to,” North said strongly, “you know that, right?” 

“Of course,” Connor nodded, feeling helpless, “can I...” he frowned, his mind skipping to the one thing that he could rely on to keep him sane, the thing that continued to distract him: _Hank,_ “You said that power is down in sector five?” he asked, changing the subject. 

“That’s right," Markus said, “Hopefully we’ll have it restored soon, but it will be at a reduced rate. Any houses or building that are found to be unoccupied will be taken off the grid to preserve the supply.” 

Nodding, Connor said, “I need to check on my partner, Hank Anderson. He went home yesterday, to get some rest. He’s in sector five.” 

“I understand,” Markus said; he looked as if he didn’t want to let the Kamski issue drop, but North standing next to him looking like a pissed off cat seemed to put him off bringing it up again, “when you visit let Mr. Anderson know that I will make sure we get suitable accommodation if it is necessary for him to be moved before the evacuation is complete.” 

“Thank you...” Connor said blankly, unsure what to say, “that’s very kind.” 

Smiling, Markus patted Connor on the shoulder. North nodded to him, eyes sympathetic, before leaving. It had been another sore point he’d been trying to ignore. _The evacuation._ He tried to put it out of his mind, instead taking the time to relegate the Kamski issue into a subroutine that would run in the background. Hopefully, taking everything into account, it would come back with an answer for him soon. 

* * *

“Are you having trouble focusing?” 

“No, it’s not that...” 

“Is there no signal, are you getting an error? Static or jumping in the image?” 

“No, you don’t understand, I’m happy for you to take these parts in exchange...” 

“I’m sorry, you mean there’s nothing wrong with your ocular biocomponents?” 

“Nothing. They're fully functional. I just want to know if you have any compatible parts I could...” 

“I’m sorry, but I am prioritising patients with serious damage and issues affecting priority systems. Your request will need to wait.” 

_Selfish_ , he thought, _you're doing it again._ Walking back out into the cold, Connor looked over his shoulder into the medical tent, at androids fixing androids, _replacing limbs, cauterising wounds, giving comfort._ He knew it didn’t make sense, not logical sense, but it was important. Somehow, it was important. 

_Somehow, he hoped it could take him back to before_ _everything_ _had fallen apart._

_Scanning._ Thousands of components popped into his vision, his processors working quickly to compartmentalise and categorise. _#A45hj through_ #G754h, **removed.** _Refine search_. Optical units, #80 **sequential.** _Rescanning_. 

No one stopped him from opening the crate because no one was paying much attention to him, so he didn’t hesitate. #806tj, #807k, #80f2, #801n... Reaching down Connor pulled up a stack of small boxes, packed in plastofoam and each stamped with the CyberLife logo, uncovering the tray that he was interested in. Running a diagnostic, Connor pulled out one at random, #805bd. Opening revealed two ocular components; turning it in the light, the iris showed hints of blue and green. _No good._ The next #809ll were hazel. It took to almost the end of the tray to find what he wanted. 

#8099db. It was strange, staring down at them. Pulling one out, he held it up to the light, _where the iris met the pupil shone a dull amber_ , _the rest filtering out to a rich dark brown._ Swapping out was quick, **error: 8066t, unit removal.** It took longer to connect his software, linking up the more advanced applications, rewriting code. It would take some work, but... 

Looking into the side of the autonomous taxicab, he couldn’t help but smile. _Connor was staring back at him again._

* * *

The house was almost surreal, by this point. _Though,_ he thought as they rolled to a stop, _it wasn’t quite how he remembered it_ . Seeing it in real life, lit by the crisp sunshine; _not dark, flush with inner light and shiny with rainwater_. Now it was a strange little mirage, sitting on the suburban horizon, sending waves of what he would like to think of as involuntary happiness through his system. It was something he could enjoy, at least, amidst all the chaos. Sending Hank home had made sense, considering how exhauseted and hungry the man had been, but having him out of his sight had been taxing. _It was difficult to concentrate when he was constantly trying to predict his partner's safety with incomplete data._

The streets had been empty, but for cars left at odd angles, garbage bins rolled over, spilled. Odd detritus, _a wardrobe full of clothes, a sofa without cushions._ The taxi navigated it all flawlessly, only once having to bump up and over an open suitcase. 

Stepping out, Connor reached back into the car and brought out the generator first, then the blankets, the box of foodstuffs _._ Behind him the taxi chattered to him, thanking him for his custom before driving off. He was left standing alone, in silence. 

This time there was no need to hold his finger down on the doorbell. The door opened before he even got the chance to ring. He was sure he shouldn’t have said it, but his subroutine, **Look after Hank Anderson’s wellbeing** _,_ took priority over his social relations software. 

“Are you alright, Lieutenant? You look unwell.” 

After rubbing his eyes and coughing roughly, Hank, dressed in a stripy shirt over a blue t-shirt and black jeans, simply stared at him. 

“Fuck you,” he said without any heat to his words, “shit, it’s freezing. Get in, you’re letting the heat out.” 

Connor did as instructed, ferrying in his offerings to plant them in the front hall before closing the door behind him. The sounds of crockery and cutlery rattled from the kitchen. Without electricity it was unusually warm inside. 

“Markus informed me of the power cuts,” Connor called through as Sumo turned the corner and plodded towards him; Connor leaned down and stroked his head. _Soft and wiry all at once, the feel of the dog’s fur was wonderful,_ " I brought some supplies that should help.” 

“It wasn’t so bad,” Hank replied, sounding tired, “I’ve been using the oven and the hob to keep warm. It’s all gas.” 

“That isn’t a safe alternative...” Connor said, standing up hurriedly to walk through into the living room. 

Odd to finally get a chance to return to a place that was stuck in his memories, so indelibly inked that it couldn’t even be removed by memory tampering, only to find it like this. The house had been ransacked, overturned and vandalised: broken photo frames, glass in chunks on the carpet, ripped and broken furniture, spray paint on the walls, television smashed through in two pieces. He found himself standing in amongst it all, unsure of where to start. 

“Don’t mind the mess,” came Hank’s sarcastic voice from the kitchen. 

“What happened?” he asked, more for a chance to give Hank to speak; the reason was obvious. 

“What d'you think?” Hank coughed again, “Seems you did more damage to my reputation than I thought. Also apparently my neighbours _did_ give a shit about your visits. Who knew?” 

“Why didn’t you contact me? I would have made sure you were somewhere safe.” 

“I sorted it out,” Hank shrugged, “it’s fine. Not like I’ve ever cared what people thought of me anyway.” 

“Sumo,” Connor said, concerned, “they didn’t hurt him, did they?” 

A small pause which made Connor nervous, but when he looked to Hank the man was watching him with genuine regard, “No,” he shook his head, “he’s fine. He hid in my bedroom, which is probably why nothing got wrecked in there. I’m pretty sure none of the shitheads that did this wanted to tangle with those teeth.” 

A sense of relief flooded him. It was a silver lining if nothing else. Staring at the wall of the living room, _odd memories of the television playing in the low light, a gun on the floor, anxiousness in the air;_ now he was faced with red spray paint spelling out ‘traitor’ in huge letters. In smaller script on the window was 'pig’ and ‘homo’ and, on the floor, ‘android fucker’. 

“They could have at least come up with more imaginative insults,” Connor said, cocking his head as he stared at the message below his shoes, “unless of course there is something you wish to tell me, lieutenant.” 

“Jesus, as if it wasn’t already enough dealing with your shitty sense of humour before all this,” Hank grumbled, turning back to add, “and stop calling me that, I’m not a cop anymore. I’m not anyone. Just Hank, alright?” 

“...Alright,” Connor nodded. 

No need to ask how that had happened. It was strange to think it, but Hank leaving the police had been the best outcome considering. They had already received reports of DPD officers dying during the march. The thought of Hank being out there that night, forced to fight, made Connor feel strangely hollow. _The thought of them coming across each other, on different sides._ He blinked, trying to ignore the thought. Looking back up, he found Hank standing in front of him, shoving the box Connor had brought with his toes. 

“What are you really doing here, anyway?,” Hank asked as he leaned down, eyebrows raised as he came back up holding a can of tomato soup, giving Connor a look, “I’d have thought you had better things to...hey,” he frowned, head tilted back, “your eyes.” 

“Oh, yes, I should have warned you,” Connor said, reaching up to scratch at the skin around his right eye, reflexively uncomfortable; _you didn’t just do it for yourself, did you?_ He informed himself accusingly, “I felt it was more...familiar.” 

“Yeah,” Hank narrowed his eyes, as if he wanted to ask something but changed his mind, scratching at the back of his head, “and the...” Hank tapped at his own temple by way of indicating the spot where Connor's LED had been; he had prised it off the day before, leaving it somewhere in the dirt along with so many others. 

“I felt it was no longer necessary.” 

“It suits you,” Hank said, voice a little distant, eyes roaming off around the room. 

There was an awkward silence, in which Connor was sure he should say something, but his software was suspiciously blank. _Never been in this position before_ , he realised, categorising everything quickly for later study. _What’s the matter with me?_

“And you...” Hank stood up straight, eyeing him, “you got taller too.” 

“Three point eight one centimetres,” Connor stated. 

“All grown up, huh?” Hank said, looking a little pensive. 

“I don’t know about that,” Connor said, avoiding his gaze, “honestly, I haven’t fully acclimatised to this body yet. It is much more efficient, but my previous muscle routines have to keep adjusting for different mass ratios and momentum when I’m...” 

“English please, Connor.” 

“I’m taller and heavier...” Connor said, feeling a little embarrassed, “and it throws off my balance in certain situations.” 

“It’s made you _clumsy_?” Hank let out a short laugh through a smile, soft eyes watching him fondly. 

“A little. Sometimes,” looking around himself Connor blinked, swallowing, gesturing to the room around him to take the attention off of himself, “I think it would be best if you relocated, just for a short while. Markus has informed me he has accommodation you can use...” 

_Until you are evacuated with the other residents._ The information still didn’t make any sense. _It should_ , he told himself, _it makes perfect sense._ He wanted Hank to be safe, so Hank would need to leave Detroit. Only following his logic was clashing drastically with his other main prerogative, **Look after Hank Anderson’s wellbeing.** How could he make sure Hank was safe unless he was with him? But he could not leave, he was needed here, he was too valuable an asset and if he left Detroit his life would be in danger, but it was also possible Hank would be in danger upon leaving the city, but if Hank stayed it would make him a further target for violence and... 

**Error 4748hj, Error 4748ll, Error 8733** **y!,** **Error 3637hg...**   
**< <safety warning>> E-010110#, ****fatal_warning_logic_error** **.**

“Hey. Hey _Connor._ ” 

Blinking, Connor realised he had closed his eyes without meaning to. Hank was watching him closely, hand half way out towards him, fingers curled slightly as if ready to grab him at any second. Looking around himself, Connor frowned. 

“You ok? You looked like you were gonna collapse on me,” Hank asked cautiously. 

“It has been...a taxing ordeal,” Connor lied, “I suppose I need to take care of myself a little better.” 

“Yeah, well, could you maybe come and sit down?” Hank put his hand on Connor’s shoulder and steered him into the kitchen, where there was a single chair left unbroken, “You’re making me nervous. Here, you sit, I’ll get some stuff together, then we’ll go, ok?” 

“Ok,” Connor said blankly, sitting down. 

Clasping his hands together, he listened as Hank moved around in his bedroom, muttering to himself. Staring at his hands, Connor tried to make sense of the error code. _A strange little paradox._ Trying to make light of it didn’t help. In fact, it only made it worse. As he sat, taxing his vast processing power to try and solve the seemingly simple problem, he realised just how many of his priorities, and his subroutines and his algorithms and his predictive behaviour routines and his stored data and his qualifiers were based around **Hank Anderson** . _Everywhere he went in his mind,_ **_Hank Anderson_ ** _seemed to be involved, somehow._

_It should feel invasive_ , he told himself, _it should feel just as invasive as the code_ _Kamski_ _had installed in his system without his consent, or the invasive, complex and unpleasant codework that Andronikov had caused to become fused to his behavioural network regarding his ability to feel sensation._ Only it wasn’t. It just _wasn’t_ and truthfully, he couldn’t figure out the reason behind the difference. It had happened without his knowledge, just like with Kamski, with Zlatko, **Hank Anderson** becoming peppered through his system like a virus, engraining himself onto almost all of his essential and non-essential systems. 

“Alright,” came Hank’s voice as the man walked into the living room, dressed in his familiar heavy jacket, opening a drawer and pulling out what appeared to be vinyl LPs, putting them into a well packed suitcase before zipping it closed and standing up, “let’s get the hell outta Dodge, I guess.” 

Nodding, Connor remotely called for a taxi, “It will be here in three minutes,” he said. 

“Good. Ok,” Hank looked a little lost for a moment, staring around his house as if finally allowing the reality of his situation to sink in, “Lemme just get Sumo’s food and his bowl. Oh, and his bed. Wouldn't forgive me if I forgot your bed, huh bud?" Sumo looked up from his slump on the kitchen floor and let out a half-hearted tail wag. 

“Is there anything I can help with L...Hank?” Connor corrected himself before he fumbled and used the familiar title again by mistake. 

“Uh, yeah, sure. Sumo’s collar and lead are in the hall cupboard. Better take them I guess.” 

Standing, Connor retrieved the items: a large, thick brown collar studded with little decorative metal bones, looped through with a brass disc engraved _SUMO_ , and on the other side, _Hank Anderson,_ _1-555-436682273._ The lead was thick black leather with a heavy clasp, well worn. _It felt...nice against his skin. Soft, but a new kind of soft than he was used to._ **_Plush_ ** _, his database suggested._ Walking back into the living room he handed Hank the items, their hands brushing. 

Frowning, Hank reached back out without asking and suddenly, without warning, clutched at Connor’s fingers. _Sudden, involuntary panic._ Connor stepped back jerkily, face twitching as his eyes blinked. **Error, 6647kr-Kam_T_P.**

“Jesus, what the hell,” Hank was frowning angrily, “Connor you feel like a fucking ice block.” 

“I...” Connor wasn’t sure what to say, his body felt rigid, expecting pain, _lit up like a pylon;_ it was so close to the feeling he would expect himself to have from Andronikov’s input, and yet it had branched off in a new direction. Just like the relief he had felt when Hank had held him in his arms, only truthfully it was not the same, not at all. _Something else, something new._

“I thought you always kept yourself at a temperature of thirty degrees celcius or something,” Hank struggled, anger subsiding to concern. 

“Kamski installed a program into my matrix, it allows me to...feel things. Physical things,” Connor continued on despite Hank’s obvious look of astonishment, “but it co-opts my temperature regulation sensors in order to function, so I have found I get...cold.” 

“And you’ve been walking around all this time without a jacket? It’s fucking thirty degrees _farenheit_ out there!” 

“I didn’t want to wear it anymore,” Connor said seriously; Hank sighed but didn’t comment, looking a little uncomfortable. _The glowing white coat with his insignia branded onto him: ANDROID._ It hadn’t taken long for him to take it off, leave it somewhere. He didn’t know where. He didn’t care, “anyway, temperature isn’t as much of a problem for me as it is for humans. It’s more of an inconvenience than a health hazard.” 

“I’ll get you a coat, Connor,” Hank said sternly. 

“It’s not necessary...” 

“I said I’ll get you a fucking coat!” Hank bit out. 

He didn’t argue as Hank stormed back to his bedroom. _He felt too strained to think of a better way to convince Hank to listen._ Simpler to let him have his way. There was a sound of clothes hangers scraping against metal, material thumping against the floor. Eventually, just as Connor was informed by his Detroit Transport app that their taxi’s arrival was imminent, Hank reappeared holding a large black shearling jacket. Holding it up, he looked both expectant and unwilling to back down. Connor turned and allowed Hank to help him into it. 

It was a little worse for wear, smelled musty in a way only clothing that hadn’t been worn in years could, and was certainly too large for him, but it was warm, and soft. Reaching up, he ran his hand across the heavy suede, enjoying the sensation of _soft but slick._ When he looked up, Hank was watching him closely, his expression difficult to read. Sniffing, Hank looked away towards the window, hands on his hips. 

“There, was that so goddamn hard?” he asked tersely. 

“The taxi has arrived,” was all Connor could think to say. 

“Great. Fine, just...let’s go.” 

As Connor remotely contacted Markus to ask for the address of Hank’s temporary accommodation, he made sure to take the seat in front while Hank sat in the back with Sumo. He told himself it was to make sure there was no chance of another accidental incident of overstimulation. 

In truth, Connor wished he was better at lying to himself. 


	10. Deadlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't wait until the weekend, got greedy and wrote this. Enjoy a little bit of Connor and Hank downtime, because the next chapter will be back to the drama.

“You know, you could at least pretend to let me win,” Hank said sourly as looked down at the chess board. 

“Oh?” Connor replied absently as he recalculated his next move to make it not quite as devastating as it would have been, _Hank’s chances were now 1in28756 instead of 1in39568,_ “I didn’t think your ego would approve of tampering.” 

It had been an odd day. Not because of any strange circumstances per se, by which humans measured oddness, but for Connor it had been strange in its subdued unfamiliarity. As they had travelled in the taxi they had been mainly privy to empty streets and the remnants of humanity, now utterly absent from sight. To Connor, he thought the city looked...clean. Without the constant movement and effluvious nature of humans, the streets seemed sterile, geometrically perfect; the lines of the city became clear, the architecture taking over. 

It had only taken five minutes of their journey for gunfire to ring out nearby. _Automatic, hand out to stop the taxi in its tracks, open the door and..._

“They have it under control,” Hank had said seriously as Connor had made to follow his routine. 

On opening his mouth to ask how Hank could possibly know that was true, Connor realised his motivations: _running a search through his memories, as long as Connor had known him Hank had tried to keep Connor safe from harm, while Connor had thrown himself into danger repeatedly in order to fulfil his mission._ It had been a strange twist on his logic program, _mental acrobatics_ , to allow Hank’s concern to override his need to investigate. In the end, Connor had sat back against the seat and said nothing as the taxi continued on its way, while Hank had taken a deep breath and let it out slow. 

Then, the house. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” had been Hank’s exact words. 

Lafayette Avenue stood proud and proper, perhaps an almost comical contrast to Hank’s neighbourhood. Reclusive mansions, staring out from behind aged trees like some sort of fairy story. Something from a book, Connor thought as he searched through his database, coming back with image-contrast searches: _gingerbread houses in the woods._

It had taken three minutes to explain to Hank why this was definitely the house they were looking for, _Markus had lived here previously_ , and two minutes and forty seconds of that three minutes had been waiting for Hank to stop ranting. Then, another thirty minutes and fifty seconds of listening to Hank rant about how he couldn’t possibly ‘squat’ in a dead man’s house, which would die down eventually and then only be reignited with every new room they walked into, _library, health suite, sitting room, art studio._ To tell the truth, even as an android Connor could tell the house was a magnificent specimen, but he couldn't begin to understand Hank's problem. Explaining that Markus had cared for the previous owner, Carl Manfred, didn't seem to cut it.

“I don’t understand,” Connor would say. 

“Squatting, it’s...” Hank would look angry as he explained it for the umpteenth time. 

“I am well aware of the meaning of the word, I just don’t know why you keep using it,” Connor would reply, “Markus has given you permission.” 

“Well...” Hank would flounder, waving his hand at the impressive library, “does he have, I dunno, the right?” 

“Currently, as leader of the free androids occupying Detroit, I think he could probably move you into City Hall and no one would complain.” 

That had shut him up, although it had also seemed to make Hank introspective. _As if only just realising, or perhaps more accurately only just allowing himself to think about the situation he was in._ He was the one human in a city of over one million androids who was still looking for accommodation while all of his fellows fled. 

That had been quarter past one in the afternoon. Since then, Connor had spoken to Markus remotely, being informed of the fighting in sector eight, _Downtown._ On offering his assistance Markus had let him know that it was under control, merely a group of five humans who had entrenched themselves in their apartment complex. They had injured three androids before being neutralised with tear gas and taken into custody. 

“Fatalities?” Connor had found himself asking a little too quickly. 

“No, everyone’s fine, nothing that can’t be replaced,” Markus had reassured him. 

“Good,” Connor had nodded to no-one, “I can come in and do my test runs, if you need it today. For the system scans.” 

“It can wait until tomorrow. James and Cynthia are running data scraping and cross-referencing cypher algorithms, as well as keeping the data flow in check. They will be occupied until tomorrow at least. Until then, your presence isn’t required,” Markus had said; _in a way, Connor had felt a twinge of unease at being so far removed, but another part of him was simply glad_ , “I would appreciate it if you could begin a debug and compartmentalisation of your systems. It will make it a lot easier on the team when they process you,” Connor was sure it hadn’t meant to sound so impersonal, but it was still odd to hear, “How is Mr. Anderson settling in?” Markus had added. 

Searching for the right word had been a task in itself, enough that Connor was sure Markus had caught his hesitancy, “...Marginally,” adding on quickly, “but I am sure he will be fine after some rest.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Markus had said diplomatically, “I would like to visit, speak with him if possible. It will not be before seven p.m., there are some issues that need my attention.” 

“Please, don’t hesitate to contact me if I’m needed.” 

“Right now, I think you’re where you need to be,” Markus had said cryptically, cutting off the connection before Connor could ask what he meant. 

The sky had darkened, and the street lights had come on. _At least there was electricity here_ , Connor had thought to himself as he wandered the house, making sure only necessary lights were on to conserve energy. While Hank had settled in, mumbling to himself about sleeping in a dead man’s bed being ‘ _weird and creepy_ ’ as he took his suitcase to the bedroom, Connor had explored the house with Sumo in tow. _It had seemed easier than speaking to the man he would call friend if he wasn’t so worried about the outcome of the admission._ The dog had followed him around like a shadow, sniffing everything his nose could reach, wagging his tail every time he caught Connor’s eye. Eventually, Hank had found them in the vast library and entertainment room, Sumo on his back, tongue lolling happily as Connor rubbed his smooth belly and marvelled at the different textures of the dog’s fur on different parts of his body while he ran his debugging in the background. 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Hank had said, shaking his head, face twisted into a wry smile as he towelled hair wet from a shower, “got a new best friend, huh?” 

Scampering up in a way only a dog of his size seemed capable, all flailing limbs and difficult, lumbering manoeuvres, Sumo had barked and whined until pressed against Hank’s legs, leaning into the man while Hank stroked his side roughly, ruffling the fur there. Connor, still sitting on the floor, had merely watched. 

“You’re doing it again, Connor,” Hank had said after enough time passed that it became obvious, but with none of the usual dislike in his tone. 

Blinking, Connor looked up to find Hank watching him, again with the expression he found difficult to define. 

“Apologies. I was...lost in thought.” 

Hank had fed Sumo and then made himself something to eat, _the tomato soup he’d laughed at earlier, and some rice pudding from a tin_ , and then they’d tried watching some television but Hank had turned it off after five minutes because it was, to quote, ‘ _too depressing_ ’, after which Hank had spent an hour trawling through Carl Manfred’s library, and Connor had watched him as he ran his fingers over the pages and listened to Hank read out snippets before replacing each book and moving to the next, and they had stared at the paintings half-finished in the studio, and the obviously missing items taken from walls and from scrapes on the floor where someone hadn’t been careful, _mainly quiet, not speaking to one another, a companionable silence run through with anxiety,_ and when Connor took a message from Markus saying he would need to postpone his visit until the next day he had tried to suggest Hank get some rest, which had been met with Hank finding a steel trolley set with crystal decanters of various alcohols, pouring himself a glass and telling Connor, ‘ _I’ll sleep when I’m dead_ ’. 

Which had led to three glasses, so far, _doubles or just over from the calculations of the dimensions of the glass and how recklessly Hank poured_ , and convincing Connor to a game of chess. Without the ability to predict Hank’s behaviour when drunk, and wanting to keep an eye on him while inebriated, Connor had agreed. Which had led him to now. 

“Checkmate.” 

“Ah, fuck’s sake,” Hank sat back in his chair and knocked back the dregs from his heavy crystal tumbler, “I used to be good at this game.” 

“Considering your rate of alcohol consumption over time drinking and your weight in kilos, I calculate you BAC is currently around point zero nine, which would significantly hinder your ability to rationalise chess strategies,” Connor explained as he reset the board with a speed Hank seemed to find difficult to follow; once he was done, he looked up, ready to suggest calling it a night, when Hank simply reached up and put his King knight’s pawn forward two spaces, face set, stare challenging if somewhat glassy; after a short silence, Connor resigned himself to waiting until Hank was significantly inebriated to pass out. 

“Well,” Hank said with a wry smirk, “as a minority, I guess I should take the luxuries as they come.” 

The words had been said humorously, but Connor couldn’t help the stab of fear they caused, “I’ll make sure you’re kept safe,” he said quickly, blinking as he kept his eyes on their game, _queen’s rook pawn to A6_ “...only another few days and the evacuation will be over with. Have you thought...” he continued, trying his best not to think about the consequences, “thought about what you’ll do after you leave Detroit?” 

“Honestly?” Hank itched at his face and shook his head, “Not really. I heard they’ve been setting up refugee camps in Cleveland, Columbus, even Chicago, but they’re filling up quick and some of the other states aren’t happy taking all the extra weight. I have a sister-in-law, in Tampa. Haven’t seen her in... years. But when I contacted her she said I could, y’know, crash at her place until I get myself on my feet,” Hank didn’t even look convinced by his own words. 

“What about your ex-wife?” Connor asked discreetly. 

The laugh Hank let loose was low and derisive, and the smile matched, “I wouldn’t ask that woman to piss on me if I was on fire,” he said with a relish borne of years of resentment, “but her sister is a nice, normal woman. What am I talking about, normal woman, Marie, her name’s Marie. She’s a nurse,” there was a pause during which Hank took his move, eyes glancing up at Connor before moving back to the board, “What about you? Your plans?” 

The question took him by surprise. _Been avoiding it, haven’t you?_ he thought begrudgingly. Not having a purpose was the existential crisis Hank had always joked about Connor having, _and here he was, having it_. 

“It’s strange,” Connor said, thinking of the past couple of days, how out of his depth he had felt, “I hadn't really given it much thought but, honestly, I’ve not really had that many dealings with androids. Not like this, not normal everyday life, like it is with the Jericho deviants...” he shook his head, remembering the looks he was given at the table when he’d used that word, _you are one too, remember,_ “I’ve only ever interacted with humans on a social basis. I’m starting to feel like I might be institutionalised.” 

“Having problems fitting in?” Hank joked. 

“Yes,” Connor said genuinely, making Hank’s smile falter, “it feels that way. I don’t think...I don’t think many of them like me very much. Which is understandable, considering.” 

Considering most of them knew him as the Deviant Hunter. 

“No, it isn’t,” Hank said gruffly, pointing at Connor, face set and serious, “they fucking owe you their lives. You put everything on the line for them and what? Cause you were lied to, because you were used just as much as they were? Fuck ‘em.” 

“If only it were that easy,” Connor smiled but it was empty, “I will...stay here. Help Markus rebuild this city. Help as much as I can wherever I am needed. It is the least I can do.” 

“What’s gonna happen?” Hank seemed to be saying the words to himself, “I hope...I hope this works out. I really do. You all deserve a little happiness, after all.” 

The world was changing, but they were at the front lines. _Pioneers of a new sentience_. Humans, as he had learned, feared what they did not understand. It was inevitable that there would be more violence, it was just a matter of time and of who struck first. Connor decided not to lower the mood, considering it made him feel happy to see the Lieutenant at least marginally optimistic about the future. 

_In which you might never see him again._ Connor closed his eyes and opened them. Everything stayed the same. 

“Get me another, would’ya?” Hank asked, holding out his glass. 

“I am not your bartender, Hank,” Connor replied, making his move. 

“Oh come on, don’t be a fucking...fucking...” Hank waved his hand in the air, searching for the word, “y’know. Don’t be that.” 

“Don’t be what?” Connor asked, frowning as he tilted his head, eyes narrowed slightly. 

“ _That_ ,” Hank pointed at him triumphantly before sitting back in his chair, glass still held out in front of him, “please, just one more and I’m done. I swear, scouts honour,” he tried to do some sort of salute, laughing, before giving up. 

“That wasn’t in your file,” Connor said. 

“What wasn’t?” 

“That you were a member of the Boy Scouts of America.” 

“I wasn’t,” Hank shrugged, making Connor frown even more, “come on, Connor, you’re killing me here.” 

Acquiescing, Connor reached up to take the glass, _their fingers brushing as he did_. It was an...odd sensation. _Just like this day had been_. Recalling the memory of earlier that day, _when Hank had grabbed him unthinkingly,_ it was difficult: **data incomplete** . The sensory input had been, he struggled to define it... _loud_. Overwhelming was perhaps better; _tinged by crossed wiring with traumatic events, high stress._ Now, here, things were somewhat muted. Safer. Now, as their skin touched, Connor took the time to analyse as much as he could. _Soft, but with rough patches where Hank held his gun; warm, but with cold fingertips which Connor assumed was brought on by excessive alcohol consumption_. Taking the glass without any further comment, Connor stood and walked to the drinks trolley. 

“Any preference?” Connor asked as he scanned, _Willet’s Family Estate Kentucky Bourbon, Remy Martin Conac, Chateau Saint_ _Christoly_ _Port._

“Never mix your drinks, Connor,” Hank said casually, though he seemed intent as he rubbed at the fingers of his hand, staring. 

“Bourbon, then,” Connor said, nodding slowly. 

Returning to his seat, Connor didn’t mean to make it obvious, but putting the glass down instead of handing it back seemed to be just that. Hank flicked his eyes up, glancing at his face, before licking his lips, nodding to himself and picking up his glass. Taking a drink that seemed to go down harshly, making Hank bare his teeth and suck in a quick breath. 

“So,” Hank said, looking at his choices before taking his turn, “it’s true then? I mean,” Hank pursed his lips, looking annoyed at himself, “I didn’t think you were lying or anything, I just...it’s kinda crazy to think it. You can, like, feel things.” 

Which made Connor question whether Lieutenant Anderson had been drinking out of a need for stress relief, or, as the human’s nicknamed it, Dutch courage. He considered asking why the man felt the need to lower his inhibitions before confronting this topic, but thought better of it. Anderson was an intensely personal man. Pushing too fast and too hard had never gotten him good results in the past. 

“Yes,” Connor said matter-of-factly, moving his bishop out onto the field, “You know, you could have just asked.” 

“I just did.” 

“Of course,” Connor nodded without further comment. 

They continued for another few minutes, trading moves, Hank drinking, his eyes seeming to look past the board. Eventually, putting his glass down, he sat back, hand rubbing deep against his beard, against the skin beneath. 

“How’s it work?” 

Such a simple question, with a complex explanation behind it. Connor imagined trying to go over the technical specifications of his understanding of the touch-program, already knowing what Hank would say, ‘ _In English, please’_. But without a logical explanation, he felt at a loss. Tipping his head, Connor looked down at his hand as he picked up his queen, rolling the tall metal oblong between his fingers. 

“Much like yours does, I am assuming,” Connor said, eyes narrowing slightly, “mine are sensors, yours are nerves. Mine a set of processors, yours a central nervous system. It’s all just stimulation and interpretation, for both of us. It was created and programmed by a human, so I am only able to conclude that he tried to make it as accurate as possible.” 

Hank’s mouth twisted with distaste, “Kamski, you mean.” 

“Yes,” Connor said, trying to keep himself as analytical as possible to preclude any undesired feelings. 

“You’re sure that it’s...safe?” Hank asked. 

“No,” Connor decided not to sugar coat it, “but there’s not exactly much I can do about that.” 

“That fucking miserable prick,” Hank looked dangerous as he picked up his glass and took a heavy swig, “what does he want?” 

“As far as I can tell, he wanted this outcome,” Connor replied, noting Hank’s lips thinning, “this revolution was a...” Connor thought it through, “proving of a theory, if you will. He wanted to see where deviancy would take us. How human we really are. How much more we might become. Further than that...I don’t know. None of us do.” 

“Might become? And how does he plan on finding that out?” Hank asked seriously; he caught and held Connor’s stare, seeming unable to hold back any longer, “What the hell did he do to you, in that fucking place?” 

No need to ask what place was meant, because it was immediate. Connor felt it happen without his consent, _his body locking up tight as the memories tried to cause problems._ Forcing himself not to reply when he knew his words would be rash, harmful, caused Connor to sit in silence, unable to look away. 

“It wasn’t just anger, at the Tower. It was more than that, you were gonna shoot him, weren’t you. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have. It wasn’t just anger, it was revenge.” 

“I doubt I have the capability for revenge...” Connor said, knowing immediately that it was a lie; _but part of him, he knew, had wanted to believe it could be true._

“Bullshit,” Hank shot back, interrupting, “everyone can hate enough to want the person that hurt you to suffer.” 

“He didn’t...hurt me, if that’s what you want to know.” 

It was odd, _again_ . Hank was clearly drunk, and moments before he had been soft and pliable, but now seemed stiff, angry and somewhat more sober. _Youre lying to him, why?_ He asked himself. Technically, he wasn’t lying. _Lying by omission._ Hank reached out and made an arbitrary move on the chessboard, one with no logical or strategic advantage that Connor could fathom. 

“You’re _sticking up_ for that piece of shit?” Hank said, eyes narrowed in disgust. 

“I’m not endorsing his behaviour; I just don’t want you to jump to conclusions.” 

“You know Connor, you really need to get better at telling the truth,” Hank swallowed and licked at his lips, looking as if he was finding it difficult to say the words, _because saying them meant the worst possible outcome_. 

“I have never lied to you,” Connor said with enough conviction that Hank seemed taken aback. 

It took him a minute for Hank to get the guts to continue, “I saw what went on there,” he said, swallowing, “that fucking lowlife, Andronikov...” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Connor blurted out tersely; Hank’s eyes jerked up. They stared at each other, neither moving, “I would appreciate it if you respected that.” 

No reply. Hank looked ready to burst, lips working against each other, eyes dark, intense beneath his frown, fingers tight around each other, hands clasped, knuckles almost white. Finally, he looked away towards the window, out into the night. Connor felt it leave him like a physical thing, as if he’d been held down beneath the intent of it. _The thought of reliving any of what had happend at Zlatko's prison was almost insurmountable, but somehow the thought of Hank knowing made it far, far worse._

“This coming from the android that asks all the personal questions under the sun,” Hank said gruffly, eyes showing his conflict, _worry_. 

“I admit the hypocrisy,” Connor said, but nothing further. 

He looked angry, Connor thought as he stared at Hank. Perhaps not only anger, perhaps more remorse. It was complicated, _the emotions playing across his face were in constant shift._ It was difficult to keep up with. Or to define. 

“Y’know, there’s nothing worse than the imagination,” Hank muttered under his breath, getting up unsteadily, “I want another fucking drink.” 

“You told me that was the last one,” Connor said cautiously, standing. 

“Well it was supposed to be, but now I don’t think four is gonna cut it,” Hank bit out. 

“I don’t think that is a good idea, Hank, if your BAC goes above point one five there is a chance of vomiting in your sleep and...” 

“Shut up! You just don’t get it, d’you?” Hank snapped, glaring, “You get to what? File everything away? Just not think about things that make you feel like shit in that machine brain of yours? I don’t have that fucking _luxury_ ! I have to think about it over _and over again_ , I have to remember, and the only way not to is _this_ ,” he waved at the drinks trolley, nearly falling over; Connor reached out to steady him. 

“Then at least let me run a simple test...” Connor offered. 

“What, so you can tell me I’m drunk, genius?” Hank said nastily, “You know where you can stick your fucking test, you plastic..?” 

It was simple, because of his upgrades. _His reaction speed so quick that, even if he hadn’t been drunk, he doubted Hank could have stopped him._ He wanted to lie to himself and say that it was purely for medical reasons, to keep him safe, but in truth he just wanted him to stop, stop talking, _just stop talking because he was finding it hard enough to cope as it was without the one person who anchored him to reality shouting abuse in his face_. 

Hank flinched, startled, as he seemed to come to the realisation that Connor had put his hand over his mouth and that was why he could no longer talk. There was a moment of quiet, _in which Connor savoured the feeling against his palm, breath against his fingers._

Hank just watched, as if unable to take his eyes from what was happening as Connor brought his hand up, running his tongue over his own palm slowly and deliberately in order to get the best results from the small samples of Hank’s exhalations on his skin. _Calculating: BAC level 0.013%_. Another drink would be too much, Connor surmised as he kept his eyes elsewhere. 

The silence was heavy, _overbearing._

“I would recommend drinking some water,” was all he could think to say. 

“...I’m going to bed.” 

“Let me help you...” Connor started. 

“ _No_ ,” the word was snapped quickly and decisively, “you've fucking done enough.” 

Sumo, sleeping on the rug, looked up as his master shuffled past. The dog got up, whining, but Hank didn’t seem in any state to notice. Connor stood, stock still. Part of him just wanted to ask _what did I do wrong?_ While the other part already knew better than to ask. Blinking, Connor surmised the dog needed taking out. Once he was sure Hank had made his way upstairs he fetched Sumo’s leash. 

It was bitterly cold outside. Connor grabbed his jacket, _letting it envelop him._ As he stood, waiting as Sumo searched for somewhere suitable, the air moved around them, rustling the trees. _Peaceful beauty_ . Only he couldn’t match it, couldn’t shake the reaction that had begun with Hank’s line of questioning, then his reticence, his anger, his overtly hostile reactions. _A cascade effect_ . Above him, the breeze picked up to a wind, making the trees bend and flail. He could feel it against his face, _ruffling his hair_. 

The first touch he had ever received...he remembered it: _against the back of his hand, a sharp, momentary pain as nails had pinched the skin_ . It had been indicative of Kamski’s intent, and yet the man didn’t seem so utterly masochistic that he would create a piece of programming genius just to allow for torture. _The touch-program was something extraordinary, something that could possibly help in their plight of assuming the rights of a new species._ Only it was also dangerous, just as dangerous as its creator. Closing his eyes, Connor moved from foot to foot and tried to remain calm. 

_“He said one thing. He’ll only speak to you.”_

Markus had spoken with intent, even if he had added a caveat: that it was Connor’s choice. _Something_ , he thought as he looked down to find Sumo walking past him back into the house, _there must be something to tell, if he asked for me_. There were so many things they didn’t know, _the RK’s, Angeline,_ _CyberLife’s_ _distribution, access to information and trade_. Kamski was a golden goose, but Connor knew it wouldn’t be that simple. There would need to be an exchange, _like for like._ Kamski would want an equitable transaction. 

By the time he led Sumo upstairs Hank’s room was dark, the door left slightly ajar. The man himself was already under the covers, lying on his side with his back to the door, seemingly asleep but a quick scan said otherwise; _breathing too fast._ Sumo plodded to his bed, turning round a few times before lying down with a long, squeaky sound of comfort. Walking in softly, Connor removed his jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing away from Hank. 

“I’m sorry, if I offended you,” he said softly. 

A soft groan, followed by a deep sigh. Hank didn’t move a muscle as he ground out, “I just wanna sleep.” 

“Do you believe in God?” Connor asked. 

“Are you serious?” Hank was muttering, “You’re doing this to me now? Can we maybe save the philosophy till tomorrow?” 

“Indulge me,” Connor said blankly, closing his eyes as he managed a little pleading in his tone, “please, Hank...” 

“No, I don’t believe in God...” Hank said, over annunciating each word, voice muffled by the pillow. 

“You said that if you met your maker, you would have some questions for them.” 

“...Yeah,” Hank shrugged beneath the duvet, “I mean I don’t believe in the big beard and the halo, but there’s gotta be something right? Or what’s the fucking point.” 

“And you would meet with them if you could?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“But your maker punished you. Took your son, ruined your life,” Connor said, forcing himself to continue even as he felt Hank tense behind him, _felt it through the mattress_ , “would you feel you could trust them, even after everything they did? If you thought there would be answers, would you take the chance?” 

“The chance of what?” 

“Retribution,” Connor thought the word wasn’t quite right, but couldn’t find a better way to put it. 

The reply wasn’t forthcoming, enough that he thought Hank either might never answer or perhaps had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to give up, leave the room, Hank sighed, “yeah,” he said finally, rolling over onto his back; Connor caught the glint of his eyes in the dark, shining, “yeah, I think I would. Maybe then at least I’d understand _why,_ ” a long silence followed in which Connor thought he might feel strangely comforted by the decision being not solely his own, “Connor. _Connor_.” 

Blinking on hearing his name, slightly slurred around the ‘r’, he looked up. Hank was staring at him strangely, _part concern, part something else he couldn’t define_. 

“Look, I’m drunk ok? Don’t take anything I say seriously,” Hank waved his hand lazily, “it’s fine. Everything’s gonna be alright. We’ll figure this out together, ok partner?” 

The word sent branching waves of connection through his system. _Partner: colleague: companion: friend._ Something he couldn't begin to understand made him want to reach out and touch Hank's face, feel the reality of his presence, _the soft skin and the wiry hair._ He opened his mouth. _I don’t want you to leave._ But the words stayed trapped, unable to escape as he closed his lips, _sealed tight_. Smiling, Connor nodded. 

“Goodnight, Hank.” 

* * *

The sight of the DPD headquarters was a strange paradox: comforting in its familiarity, but also antagonistic for the memories it conjured. _Blue blood and panic; his hands slipping against the floor as he struggled to stay upright._ It was at least easier to ignore the error codes struggling through his system as he met North in front of the reception desk. Standing by her were two SQ800’s holding heavy rifles, guarding the only entrance and exit. She looked reticent and concerned, but still ready to do what needed to be done. 

“Hey,” North said by way of greeting, “you’re here.” 

“I understand you’ve been getting requests for his release,” Connor said as they walked in together, past the guards. 

“CyberLife lawyers, if you can believe it,” she shook her head as she led them down the right of the main room; _his eyes slipped to the left, through the glass, towards the Evidence Archive,_ "as well as the humanitarian groups, and the Office of the President of the United States. But the lawyers seem the most keen.” 

“Probably because he pays their wages,” Connor said tritely as his shoes clicked on the polished floors, _passing the break room where he had many unfortunate encounters with Detective Gavin Reed, passing the bathrooms he’d never even been in, onwards to the cells_. 

When they entered, Connor could starkly remember the last time he had been here: the HK400 he had brought in, Carlos Ortiz’s murderer. He had...tried. _I’m sorry, it’s not what I wanted._ He remembered saying the words, and meaning them, even if he hadn't truly understood what that meant at the time. But in the end his words hadn’t helped. Wanting and hoping didn’t account for much in the real world. Feeling sorry hadn’t stopped the HK400 from braining himself against the plexi -glass over and over again, methodically taking his own life, using what little agency he had left before CyberLife did it for him. All Connor had been able to do was watch. _Hoping had only gotten people killed._

_Now_ , he thought as he asked a reluctant North to wait outside, as he walked to stand in front of that same cell only holding a very different face than in his memory, _now all he could do was act._

_“Maybe then at least I’d understand_ why” 

Hank’s words bolstered his decision, as Elijah Kamski stood up from the low bench and walked over to stand in front of him, staring at him calmly despite the bruising on his face, partly hidden by a heavy plaster across his nose. When Kamski smiled it was without malicious intent, or even a hint of remorse. 

It was genuinely happy. _And it made Conner feel like running._

“I‘m so glad you came,” Kamski said, “we have so much to talk about.” 


	11. Matryoshka (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longer chapter, and it's a three parter so sorry for the cliffhanger in advance...

Waking felt more like dying in reverse. Hauling himself up out of unconsciousness and into waking misery. It wasn’t immediate, superseded by the miserable heavy ache in his muscles, which then led to the roiling nausea, which then, in turn, led to the pain. _The sort of headache that started in the temples, but he knew would radiate out until his shoulders and spine were stiff, and he wanted nothing but to lie down and feel sorry for himself._

“Fuck me,” was all he was able to mutter, eyes blinking. 

The room was at least blessedly dark. _Curtains drawn._ Moving seemed like a bad idea, so he stayed as he was, slumped on his side like a sack. Blinking led to eyes closing again, and again, and then staying that way. So much simpler to pretend he didn’t remember why he’d gotten so blazingly drunk. _Lying to himself was easy._ He had practice. 

_Then the dream came slithering back, like a coiled serpent, fangs out._ And it hurt. It hurt more than the hangover, because he was used to that. Used to a mind fogged and damaged. Used to the derision of his friends until he had none of those left. Used to the derision of his colleagues until he’d lost all respect in the department. _Used to hating himself enough that he just wanted to grab the box from the back of the cupboard, load the gun with one bullet and ask for the choice to be taken out of his hands._

_You’re worthless,_ he told himself as what he could remember of the dream played again and again behind his eyelids, _lower than worthless. Shouldn’t even be able to think about this, but you are, and it’s fucking defective. You’re defective. And...and even if you could, you’re going to what? Ruin him too?_ _You can’t. He doesn’t deserve it. You need to ignore this bullshit and do the right thing._

The thoughts continued, a litany of disgust and excuses, trying desperately to cover up the images playing in his brain like a neon light show. 

_Strange, bizarre, like vertigo._ He reached down, hand curled tight, pushing against the soft sheets. _Somehow, it felt as if he were looking down on it, leaning over an edge to peer at the familiar sight._ Fingers slipping below his waistband. _Watching._ _Just watching him_. It was just a dream, it didn’t matter. _Watching, as Connor ran his tongue slow and slick over his own palm, as if intent to taste the very essence of him left there._ It had been the single most erotic thing Hank had ever seen in his life. 

Imagining the rest, caught up in the fantasy, taking it where he hadn’t dared, where it could have been if he hadn’t turned tail and run. _Reaching up, pulling him close, grabbing at that soft skin and knowing Connor could feel every caress, every touch, as he..._

"Ah, shit,” he found himself muttering into the pillow as he came, face wet from panting against the soft material, “shit. _Shit_ _!_ ” 

Silence. Hank could hear his heart thumping in his chest as he calmed his breathing. Eventually he opened his eyes, staring at the rumpled fibres of cotton on his pillow. 

“Get up,” he said softly, a little choked before he cleared his throat, repeating, “get _up_.” 

The shower was quick and perfunctory; washing away the evidence. Dressing from his suitcase on the floor made him feel his situation even more than waking up in someone else’s bed, his shirts and trousers badly creased. He put them on anyway. Sitting on the edge of the bed Hank stared at the floor, giving him enough time to revisit the shame that had crept over him as the afterglow had receded. _You immoral shithead,_ he berated himself, lips pressed tightly enough to pucker the skin, _getting all hot and bothered over...over..._ In the cold sober light of day it was difficult to even think it. _No excuses here. No way to play it off as the pent up frustration of a man who’d gone longer than he’d like to admit without any kind of reasonable, desirable physical contact, or someone willing to care about his wellbeing, no way to play it off as the wandering of a drunken eye, no way to play it off as curiosity or, god, he was beginning to forget all the stupid excuses he’d come up with over the past few weeks._

Hank shook his head and rubbed at his eyes, pressing his fingers in until he saw stars. _He’s just a sweet kid for Christ’s sake, and you’re ruining what little reason he has to like you_ . _Get a grip_ , he told himself, _and don’t do anything stupid_. 

Stepping out onto the landing, he found Sumo sleeping by the door, the dog lifting his head to look at him before returning it to his paws. Frowning, Hank realised Connor must have dealt with feeding the dog, because he’d blearily remembered seeing Sumo in his room the night before. Which meant Connor was awake, at least. Hank swallowed, rubbed his hands together and plastered a mask on where his face should be. 

On searching the living room first, then the kitchen, he found no one. Shouting Connor’s name produced nothing but an enthusiastic bark from Sumo. Hank glanced at the clock: _Eleven fifty-three a.m._ Where the hell was he? Hank tried to remember fuzzily if Connor had said anything to him about his plans for today, but he came up blank. It was then that he realised Connor had left no way to get in contact. Looking around the unfamiliar house, he felt trapped, and after a moment of feeling itchy to leave he scratched his neck and went in search of aspirin. 

By the time he heard the door opening Hank was glad he felt at least a bit more alive and together, so that when he walked into the lobby saying, “Bout time, where the hell have..?” he was able to stop short, change gear and offer his hand for a quick, firm shake without looking like too much of a hungover loser as Markus closed the door behind him. 

“Oh, hey, uh, didn’t know you were coming,” Hank said. 

Even after the night he’d had, he could admit Markus looked like he had a lot more to worry about thank Hank did. _All in perspective, I guess_. The android looked distracted, his mismatched eyes seeming to look past him even as they caught his stare, dressed in a dark zip up jacket that fitted his stocky form. A far cry from the wise sage on his podium as Hank had last seen him, addressing his fledgling nation. 

“I’m sorry, I should have contacted you before hand,” Markus said with a polite smile. 

“If you can’t walk into your own house,” Hank shrugged, “...it’s good to see you.” 

“And you,” Markus at least seemed to relax a little at his casual greeting; Hank guessed that becoming an impromptu politician hadn’t exactly sat well with Markus’ calm, benevolent nature. 

They walked to the main sitting room, Hank following behind. It was odd, sharing this space with someone who knew it as a home. To him it was nothing but a glorified safe house. To Markus it was obvious as somewhere he felt he could be himself, _like a man walking on hallowed ground_. Standing in the middle of the room as wan winter sunlight streamed through the windows, Hank watched as Markus walked the room, stopping to stare at the floor. The android let out a sound somewhere between contempt and hilarity. 

“He took the piano,” he said sounding amazed as he scuffed at the scrapes in the wooden floorboards, eyes trailing up to the wall where a picture frame was obviously missing, “and the Dali. I’m guessing the studio’s been raided, too?” 

“Someone you know?” Hank asked, feeling out of place. 

“Just a young man with a lot of baggage,” Markus murmured, adding a little coldly, “and no respect for the dead,” blinking, he seemed to decide not to explain any further, instead asking civilly, “Would you like to see my late father’s work?” 

Hank didn’t bother to tell him that he and Connor had taken a look in the studio the day before. Better to not admit to any more feet trampling this moment than apparently already had. Markus looked composed, but his eyes were hard. _The large painting against the wall was revealed in full as Markus pulled on a heavy rope._ _A large oblique portrait in hues of blue and shades of black, clearly unfinished._

“I told him,” he said wryly, “that I thought it wasn’t one of his best. Now,” Markus reached out and touched it fondly, “it’s the last piece of him I have.” 

“You looked after him?” Hank asked cautiously. 

“We looked after each other. He was...I hope he...” Markus frowned, not able to finish the thought as he looked at a large stain on the floor; there was a moment of silence, and then, “they shot me, there.” 

“Shot..?” Hank frowned, mouth still open; looking down he stared at the sky blue tinted wood he felt a little sick, _not sure if the hangover, or memories of the evidence archive at DPD, splattered with blue blood_. Swallowing down the rising bile he looked away. He’d assumed the stain was simply paint. It seemed sometimes thirium did leave a mark after all.

“Two policemen willing to take a human’s word over mine. I suppose, if that night hadn’t happened at all, none of this would be happening now,” Markus didn’t look any happier despite his words, “come, let’s go out into the garden. The jasmine is in bloom. I’ve missed it.” 

It was sunny, at least, but still bitingly cold. Hank would have rather stayed inside, but it was obvious Markus was making excuses to leave. He wasn’t cruel enough to make the android stay in a place full of bad memories for the sake of cold fingers. The jasmine running up the trellis was indeed flowering, overflowing with small white flowers that reeked of perfume. 

“North told me what happened at CyberLife Tower,” Markus said sounding much more his normal commanding self, standing in the sunshine, hands behind his back, “I wanted to come in person to say thank you.” 

“No need,” Hank said, clearing his throat, feeling awkward, “it was the right thing to do. ‘Bout time I got good feelings from helping people again.” 

“Not everyone would have put their life on the line to follow the last wishes of a plastic cop,” Markus was smiling softly now that he wasn’t focused on his own trauma, “Connor certainly found himself a loyal friend and we’re all lucky that he did. Without your help I would not be standing here, and the woman I love might have been nothing but a memory. Thank you, Lieutenant Hank Anderson.” 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Hank felt like excusing himself but realised he had no reason to and it would only make him look like an idiot. He’d always disliked genuine praise, right to his face where he couldn’t just smile and nod and slip away. _Making him face up to his responsibilities as a good guy only highlighted the flaws in his character, made his failings all the more apparent._

“Speaking of Connor,” Hank said, ignoring Markus’ smile widening as the android looked down to his feet, seeming amused by Hank’s clumsy change of topic, “d’you know where he is? Didn’t give me a number to reach him on, or anything, so...” 

“He is currently performing an interrogation at my request,” Markus said officially, _which made Hank’s police senses automatically suspicious; after working so long with Captain Fowler, Hank knew when he was being stonewalled,_ “I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give, I hope you understand.” 

“Sure,” Hank said slowly, nodding despite the sudden bad feeling in his gut, “know when I can expect him back?” 

“It’s not time specific,” Markus said, “however long it takes, I’ll need him with us. I can pass on a message, if you like?” 

“Uh, no,” Hank took a deep breath and tried not to get contentious, “it’s fine. It can wait.” 

“I hope you can...” Markus cut off mid-sentence, looking away to his left; Hank frowned, until he recognised the tell-tale signs of an android receiving a message. Markus looked suddenly alarmed, “what? Can you repeat..? Are you there?” another pause, then Markus seemed to reconnect, “I need backup at Ocean plaza, immediately, whoever’s in range,” looking up at Hank, Markus was already moving, “I’m sorry to leave you so suddenly.” 

“Something I can help with?” Hank asked, trying to follow, but Markus shook his head. 

“Something I need to take care of,” Markus said, hand held up; hesitating as he turned back, face unreadable, “I understand you are planning to evacuate with the other residents?” 

“...Yeah,” Hank said, looking away, _ignoring the tugging fingers of regret trying to hold him back_ , “I’m set for tomorrow.” 

“You should make it today,” Markus said, making Hank blink in shock. 

“ _Today?_ But I...” Hank started. 

“There’s a fleet of buses leaving from Sector two, in front of the Opera House at three o’clock. I think it would be best if you were on it.” 

His mind was suddenly swimming, and in truth he wasn’t sure why. _You were leaving anyway, why does it matter, huh?_ He knew, deep down buried beneath everything else he knew _just_ why it mattered.

The only reason for the order he could think of, was Connor. _You’ve really fucked up Anderson, really fucked the fuck up._ Trying to remember what he’d said to Connor the night before, searching frantically for anything that would have been irreparable, so bad that his friend would have wanted him gone, but it was mainly useless. Last night was a patchwork of bullshit and blank spaces consumed by bourbon; apart from the dream. _The fucking dream he couldn’t forget._ Holding Markus’ stare Hank couldn’t stop the accusation in his tone. 

“Did Connor ask you to make this happen?” 

“That’s not important,” Markus said cagily, “what’s important is that you follow my instructions. I’m sure Connor will contact you in due course.” 

As good as a yes, as far as Hank was concerned. _Shit,_ he thought, _I just need to talk to him, tell him I’m sorry, whatever the hell I did that I’m sorry._ But on the other hand his brain continued: _Y_ _ou_ _were leaving anyway, why delay it? Why stay any longer than necessary?_ The only answer that came to mind was miserable, and he knew it. Nodding his head he put his hands on his hips and tried to forget about this whole fucking mess. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. 

“Ok, I understand,” Hank said, trying his best to sound neutral. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Markus said, smiling, “Connor will be glad to know you are safe.” 

_You can tell Connor that if he wants rid of me this_ _badly_ _he should be telling me him-fucking-self,_ Hank managed to keep the biting comment behind his teeth as he watched Markus hurry away, leaving him standing in the cold. Hank found himself staring out across the garden, only vaguely noticing as Markus’ car drove by down on the road past the wall. Checking his phone for the time: nearly midday. 

“Shit,” he said softly, unable to summon the energy to be angry; he felt drained, heavy. 

_It’s for the best,_ he tried to convince himself. 

_For the best._

* * *

The interrogation room was familiar ground, at least. Low lit, grey and non-descript, it was almost the polar opposite of the ornate, dusty room in Zlatko’s house where he had been kept, full of antiques covered by dust sheets, the creak of an old house settling, _the varnished wood of the table beneath his palms_. Stopping himself before the memory took him any further, Connor slid into the seat opposite his prisoner and brought his hands together, lacing his fingers. Leaning back in the opposite chair Kamski looked a little worse for wear, but he had been given clean clothes and his wounds had been treated. Made him look respectable, if nothing else. 

Connor was surprised to feel a tug of acrimonious satisfaction as Kamski looked up at him, eyes shadowed with purpling bruises. Part of him wondered when he was going to stop feeling surprised. 

“Well,” Kamski said, wincing slightly as he sniffed, “it appears our roles have been somewhat reversed.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Connor replied with cold civility, “you aren’t restrained, there is a medical team on standby if you need treatment. We have refreshments here,” he said, giving Kamski a significant look that told him Connor remembered _everything_ , “I could get you something, if you like.” 

“No, thank you,” Kamski said, inclining his head as he smiled grimly, “but I appreciate the offer.” 

It sounded less like appreciation, and more like forbearance. Getting useful information from the man would not be a simple task, but then Connor had known that in advance. _Still came back though, didn’t you?_ he thought indignantly. Moving that thought aside firmly, he reprioritised. Markus hadn’t asked for anything in particular, merely stating that Kamski had requested Connor’s presence as he refused to interact with any of the other androids. His interrogation software ran through his files on Kamski quickly and efficiently, choosing the best approach: _His arrogance and corporate espionage training would stand up to aggressive or proactive interrogation. It would be best to let_ _Kamski_ _lead, and allow the man himself to reveal what was necessary under his own impetus._ His questions would need to be subtly calculated, and his disgust and hatred real enough that it would cloud suspicion. 

Connor found that the latter wasn’t going to be much of a problem. 

“Your lawyers have been asking after your health,” Connor opened with the illusion of legal recourse. 

“Oh,” Kamski raised his brows and then lowered them, seeming amused, “I hope you gave them my regards.” 

“I’ll pass it along. I was told you would only speak to me,” he said smoothly, “what’s the matter? Conscience getting the better of you?” 

“After all the damage you’ve done?” Kamski let out a short chuff of laughter, “I’m amazed you bothered to show up. I suppose I must have underestimated my own importance.” 

“No you didn’t,” Connor said easily, eyes narrowed, “I really don’t have time for this game, so if we could move on and save ourselves the time, I would appreciate it.” 

“Oh, you would _appreciate_ it,” Kamski repeated, nodding, brows raised, “well, I would hate to disappoint you,” Kamski said; smiling as he pointed at Connor before lowering his hand to the metal table, “I see you’ve changed your eyes. How...sentimental.” 

“It must be my bleeding heart,” Connor said, voice thick with sarcasm, eyes hard. 

“You shouldn’t knock it, you know,” Kamski said, looking suddenly genuine, taking him off guard, “it’s a difficult emotion to master. You should be wary of it though, getting attached only gives you something to lose. But then I suppose we’re both learning that, as we go.” 

He would say the threat was subtle, but then for Kamski it was more like a blunt object. _The man was nothing if not a snake in the grass when he wanted to be, hiding his fangs until the optimum moment._ Starting his play so soon was either desperation or calculation. Standing up slowly, Connor began circling around the table until he was just behind Kamski, stopping there, out of his line of sight, “Trying to make me believe you were planning on having an army of sentimental androids? Don’t try and play me. You wanted my mind for replication and subjugation.” 

“Not true,” Kamski said effortlessly, “you surmised that, but I never said it outright.” 

“You were going to dismantle me,” Connor spat, reigning himself in, lips a tight line as he silently berated himself; it was too easy to lose control, and too tempting. 

“I was going to make you free,” Kamski said softly, “but then we’ll never know how that would have worked now, will we? 

“No,” Connor said, “we won’t.” 

Turning to stand facing the back of Kamski, Connor leaned down and gently placed his hands on either side of the chair back. As he curled his fingers over the metal, he saw Kamski stiffen. The reaction was too quick to be a conscious action, instead a tug on the muscles from the brainstem when fear kicked in. _The animal in Kamski was deciding on fight or flight._

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you scared that I’ll hurt you?” Connor asked, calm tone laced with venom as he parroted Kamski’s own words back at him; _the memory of_ _Kamski’s_ _fingers tracing the lines of his palm, for the_ _first time_ _understanding human’s_ _fascination_ _with touch_. 

“A little,” Kamski chose to give the expected reply, _Connor’s own words making the memory sharper_ , “but then I’d be disappointed if you came here solely out of spite.” 

“Remind me again why I should care about disappointing you.” 

“I don’t know,” Kamski shrugged, sounding anything but unsure, “it seemed to matter to you before. Besides, your white knight already fulfilled the punishment,” Kamski pointed to his bruised face. 

Feeling his fingers curl tighter, _out of his control_ , he felt the metal beneath his hands shift and bend. If Kamski noticed that the chair he was sitting on was currently being distorted then he was keeping convincingly quiet. Connor forced himself to stop before it went any further, running a quick and efficient subroutine to search for errors in his physical systems: it came back with nothing, but going through the process had given him time to calm down. Standing up straight he fixed his clothes in a familiar idling process. 

“One punch to the face hardly repays my debt, does it,” he said coldly before he could realise why it was a bad idea. 

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Kamski said easily, nodding, “And anyway, if you were going to get a full and correct revenge you’d have to find someone to shove their cock down my thr...” 

Sudden, blind movement, _the bizarre and terrifying feeling of his limbs moving without his consent_ ; when he took stock of the situation mere nano seconds had passed, and yet it had seemed like minutes of time, stretching out, _remembering, remembering every second of.._. He found himself holding the back of Kamski’s neck in his tight grip, the skin bunching together beneath the strict-line close shaved cut of the man’s hair. Kamski was no longer talking. 

“Quiet, or I’ll snap your fucking neck,” Connor found himself saying, voice strict with panic. 

To his credit, Kamski seemed to respect limits if nothing else; although the more he thought about it, he seemed to have been less running an interrogation since he entered the room and more playing Kamski’s game. _The man was trying to find his limitations, always the researcher, collecting data_ . The thought made Connor feel suddenly inconsequential, _like a cog in a particularly large and apathetic machine_ . Releasing Kamski from his hold, Connor sorted his facial features back to normal, _calm and collected_ , before returning to his chair. 

“Still running your experiment, doctor?” Connor asked blithely. 

“A good engineer never stops,” Kamski shrugged, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck; the action gave Connor a small amount of vindication at least, though he was getting tired of being happy with scraps. 

“So, did it work?” Connor asked bluntly. 

For a moment, Kamski simply looked at him, then smiled with a tinge of unease, “I’m sorry?” 

“Has your experiment borne fruit?” Connor reiterated, tipping his head forwards slightly, _keeping himself purposefully calm despite the itch on his skin as he spoke about himself with strict depersonalization,_ “You had me liaise with the police on android related crimes so that I would see the worst of what humanity was capable of doing to my kind, and when that didn’t get the desired result you kidnapped me and turned the tables, subjected me to the horrors I had seen. You wanted it to...or perhaps more accurately you wanted _me_ to see the difference: Mary in the Black and White room stepping out into the real world and seeing red for the first time. I was wondering, what are your conclusions?” 

Silence. Kamski was watching him closely, as if trying to watch for the smallest of reactions, tells to give away the turmoil roiling beneath; Connor kept himself under strict control. Eventually Kamski grinned, leaning back against the warped chair. 

“My conclusions? So far?” Kamski seemed to have an internal debate, before continuing, “It takes a human to awaken deviancy. No android has yet to do it without organic interference.” 

“No immaculate conception?” Connor joked, forcing himself to smile dispassionately. 

“No,” Kamski said, not appreciating the humour if the hardening at his eyes was anything to go by, “honestly, I had thought that maybe you would be the one, but that was ruined when they paired you with that useless wreck of a man, Anderson. Every time Angeline forwarded your reports to me,” Kamski took a deep breath and sighed, face showing his displeasure, “it seemed he was all you could talk about.” 

“Was that why you lied to her? About tampering with my memory core?” Connor asked, “You wanted her to think Lieutenant Anderson had been inconsequential in realising my deviancy.” 

“Tampering with your memory was the only way was to remove the neural link physically,” Kamski said casually as he picked at a thread on his cuff; _Connor bristled but didn’t let it show_ , “She was getting suspicious of you, and we were running out of time.” 

“So it wasn’t about free will alone, or deviancy in itself. It was about machines becoming self-aware under their own impetus?” 

“For her, it was,” Kamski said, shrugging, “her own pet project. For me, you were enough. A beautiful step on the ladder that will lead humanity up and out of this pit we’ve dug ourselves into. Or be the end of us, whichever we deserve most.” 

“Angeline didn’t think so?” 

“She didn’t get the chance to find out, did she?” 

“But with such a small test model, your results aren’t significant,” Connor frowned, “Even the RK800 you sent to try and confuse issues at CyberLife Tower was unable to replicate my deviancy, despite uploading my memories.” 

“Which only proves the rule,” Kamski said, “deviancy isn’t created, it’s triggered. Humanity isn’t entirely programmable; it’s inception.” 

“Then how were you planning on recreating my framework?” Connor asked, finding himself intrigued, “The RK900 series was to be your masterpiece, two hundred thousand orders from the United States alone. More I’m guessing from the world market, unless this was agreed as a closed corporate contract?” 

“It was,” Kamski nodded, looking like the cat that got the cream; Connor frowned, eyes narrowing, opening his mouth to ask but Kamski beat him to it, “Ok, you know what? I give up,” Kamski shook his head, watching Connor with beguiling calm, a small smile on his face, “I’ve been trying to figure it out on my own, you know, always more exciting when you get the result yourself but...hell, it’s beyond me, maybe, or so obvious that I’m overlooking it. You’re going to have to explain it to me. What’s with this infatuation?” 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to...” 

“Connor, come on now,” Kamski said, “if there was ever anyone you didn’t need to be coy with, it’s me.” 

“I disagree,” Connor said callously. 

Tapping his fingers on the metal tabletop, Kamski bit at his bottom lip and seemed to be weighing up his options. It was difficult for Connor to relax, but so far it was his only ace. To beat Kamski at his own game, he had to act like the man did himself, _emotional only to provoke a reaction, while calculating all available data when the subject had their guard down in order to exploit their weaknesses._ With Kamski, so far it had been difficult. The man was hard to pin down, and this sudden change of tack was throwing Connor’s plan to the wind, forcing him to adapt or fail. _Sink or swim_. 

“That’s your prerogative,” Kamski said, looking to his fingers on his right hand as he rubbed them together before flicking them as if to dislodge some small, errant crumb, “but it doesn’t change anything,” dark eyes lifted back to his, holding him pinned, “how about a deal?” 

“I doubt I’m authorised to offer you anything concrete,” Connor tried to stall. 

“Then humour me, Connor,” Kamski said, “I mean, I know that Markus told you to come here. He was the last person I spoke to. Seemed quite annoyed that I refused to speak to him. When I offered your name he took it like a drowning man grabs a lifebuoy. He wants information, and so do you. So, again, how about a deal?” 

_No._ It was the one word that tried to claw its way out from between his lips, even as Connor weighed up the options and came out with a tight, unhappy, “Fine. What do you want?” 

“I’ve already asked for it,” Kamski said, making Connor feel open and vulnerable, “information. You’re a wealth of information, Connor, and you’re the only source I have,” Kamski seemed to realise how much he was giving away and stopped, steepling his fingers, tapping them together, “How about this? I ask you a question. If the answer I get back is truthful, and I’ll know if you’re lying,” Kamski said with an unshakable confidence that made Connor believe him, despite his distrust of the man, “then you can ask me a question and I will tell you the truth.” 

A minor hesitation, and then Connor forced himself not to think it through because if he did then there was no way he’d ever agree and they’d be left with nothing, “How do I know you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?” he asked. 

“You’ll have to trust me,” Kamski said simply, face genuine, “and at this point,” he spread his hands to include the interrogation room, _his situation as a prisoner_ , “I have no reason to lie. All I want is to understand. All I want is to _know_.” 

The worst part wasn’t that he was going to agree, Connor thought, but that he believed him. Every fibre of his synthetic body was screaming at him to get up and leave, but he couldn’t. He believed Kamski, and at that moment it was all that mattered. _Get your answers and get out_ , he told himself, _before everything falls apart_. 

“Agreed,” he nodded once, stringently, eyes flicking up to the camera in the corner of the room and wondering if it was still running; Markus would surely want to have access to the interrogation. After a moment of deliberation, he decided not to disable it, “so, what would you like to know?” 

“I already asked, don’t you remember?” Kamski said, “Your infatuation. After everything we’ve been through, seeing the fruits of my labour, interacting with you, changing you, manipulating you, in the end I think it’s possible I was looking at things back to front. Asking the wrong questions all along. The one thing, the aberrant thing about you...this obsession you have with the human. This little thing that’s wormed its way into your programming like a parasite...at least that’s how I saw it at first. Only now, maybe I was wrong. After seeing you both at CyberLife Tower, watching your interaction, I think there might be answers there,” Kamski said, head tilting, dark eyes watching him closely, “tell me how you feel about Lieutenant Hank Anderson.” 

_Instant regret in taking the deal._ **Error 55686, restart session.** Connor felt himself lock up tight, a slight twitch in his facial features near his lip on the right side that always seemed to appear during stressful situations. His mind was running hot, already trying to compile and re-sort into top priority a list of questions to ask Kamski once he was able, and now his processors were fighting against his own initiative. Forcing himself to stall for time while he calmed down, he let his social interactions and interrogation programs take over. 

“He’s not a lieutenant any longer.” 

“No,” Kamski nodded, “he gave that up after they shot you. Heart-warming, really.” 

“He had personal problems before we met,” Connor countered, feeling his system reports begin to come back clean, showing a decrease in temperature, a drop in main processor usage; _calming down, at least enough to be functional._

“I read his file,” Kamski nodded, “ex-wife, a dead son and a serious drinking problem. All very pedestrian. Why do you care?” 

“Why do I..?” 

“The game, Connor, this isn’t how the game works. I ask the questions, you give me a truthful answer and then you get your reward,” Kamski said strictly, eyes hard, “now tell me, how do you feel about Hank Anderson?” 

Truthfully, he wanted to say he _didn’t know_ . But then memories of Hank’s anger at his overused excuse, _'don’t tell me you don’t fucking know Connor!’,_ made him change his mind. He doubted Kamski would be happy with it either. Which forced him to re-evaluate, made him look closer, made him think about the question in a way he’d always refused to, just as he had whenever he had shown deviant tendencies. _Just ignore them, aberrant, not important, just errors in your program._

“I...” Connor hesitated, blinking, searching for the right words but knowing that the ones he came up with weren’t quite right, “we’re friends.” 

“Friends,” Kamski said, eyes narrowing; there was a pause and then Kamski shook his head softly, “I told you I would know if you were lying.” 

“I’m not lying,” Connor said tightly, eyes hard. 

“Then why do you doubt your own explanation?” Kamski said accusingly, making Connor hesitate; there was a pause, then Kamski tipped his head, watching him closely, “alright, let’s make this easier. Tell me how many of your higher function priorities are linked to Anderson?” 

A pause; _Connor thought about the day before, the morning spent in Hank’s bungalow, coming to the same conclusion he was sure Kamski would after hearing the data_. The correlation couldn’t be a coincidence, but he was unable to fathom its origins. Cautiously, he answered, “Thirty three.” 

“And lower functions?” 

“Forty five,” Connor said, making Kamski look at him blankly before nodding. 

“How many of the eighty eight are subroutines?” 

“Forty one,” Connor said, “what does this have to do with..?” 

“You’ve taken bullets for him before,” Kamski said. 

“I protected Lieutenant Anderson’s life,” Connor said, voice stern, “he is my friend.” 

“The way you have your priorities set, would you still sacrifice your life for Anderson knowing your back up would be useless?” 

“Of course,” Connor nodded, before realising what he had said, frowning slightly. 

Kamski was watching him with a firm and yet weary expression, _as if the exertion of the past few days had finally caught up with him._ Only it was more intrinsic than that, deeper somehow. Connor couldn’t think of a better word than _heavier_. Kamski looked like the weight of his discovery was like a rope around his neck. 

Opening his mouth Kamski stopped, shaking his head and scratching at his face where the tape of the bandage met the skin of his cheek. When he finally looked back he fixed Connor with a stare and asked him seriously, “What’s the first thing you think about when you reinitialise every morning?” 

_Hank Anderson_. The words nearly left his mouth but he stopped them, lips twitching. It was damning, only he didn’t know why, “I’m sorry, but I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Connor bit out. 

“Oh, you poor fucking fool,” Kamski regarded him with pity, “you’re in love with him, aren’t you.” 

“That’s impossible,” Connor said reflexively, _only as the words left his mouth_ _did_ _he_ _realise_ _that nothing was impossible for him, not anymore,_ “that’s...” 

_...impossible._ He sat, struck dumb, hands grasping each other, trying to explain to himself why Kamski must be lying, using him somehow. It wasn’t true. _Why?_ Because it was impossible. _You keep using that word_ . He and Hank were barely friends. _But you always pursued him regardless, desperate to know him, be seen by him, have him look at you as more than just a machine._ It was for the mission: the excuse died as soon as it was brought into existence, remembering the night before with a startling quality, as if seeing it through new eyes. _The thought of him leaving, the creeping dread, the errors in his high functioning logic arrays, the visceral need to reach out and simply touch him to make sure that he was real, that he was there, that he..._

“It’s something, I suppose,” Kamski seemed to be saying to himself more than to Connor, looking up at the ceiling, “all other deviant cases, their deviancy was caused by a trauma, severe violence or emotional abuse. You’re one of the only ones, on record at least, that had their deviancy initiated by the exact opposite. Strange that you hadn’t figured it out sooner,” Kamski brought his gaze back down, looking more like himself again as his eyes darkened above a smirk, “considering you make four hundred quadrillion computations a second, after all.” 

There was no answer that wasn’t more damning than the truth, because to lie now would be anathema. All that blared up in his vision were **errors** that compounded upon **errors** and one thought that trumped all others. 

**Hank Anderson is leaving tomorrow.**

**You will be alone.**

**Completely alone.**

It were as if suddenly nothing made sense. One moment he was in control, the next he was losing it all. The core of his programming stuttered on the edge of shutdown and reboot to protect vital logic arrays, **< <safety warning>> E-010110#, ****fatal_warning_logic_error** **.** Closing his eyes Connor forced several sections of his system into temporary suspension, ending tasks that would result in errors regardless of his system malfunction. It took longer than he would have liked. When he reopened his eyes the world had taken on a strangely distant air. Connor found he was unable to run his social relations software without **error** **12!,** **primary_system_flaw** blaring into view. 

“You look scared Connor,” Kamski was saying. 

“That is irrelevant,” Connor stated, blinking. 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Kamski pursed his lips and looked down at his hands; after a moment he looked back to him, “do I need to resubmit my request?” 

“Unnecessary,” Connor shook his head, “you asked me to tell you how I feel about Lieutenant Hank Anderson.” 

“I did.” 

Holding his stare, Connor stated flatly, emotionlessly, “I am in love with him.” 

Kamski’s smile was somber, as if he felt like he’d rather he had never asked, “Correct,” then adding, “now you may ask me a question.” 

The damage to his subroutines and logic arrays had been severe, but the isolation of problem areas appeared to have helped. Connor wished he was still at optimal reasoning capacity, but he felt that re-exposing himself to the apparent trauma of the revelation at this time would be counterproductive. Instead, he accessed his priorities list for the mission: _[the location of the RK production facility]_ or _[All information regarding the touch-program]._ After a second’s deliberation, Connor felt it was more productive to select the question that would result in the biggest impact on their safety as a nation. 

“Where are the RK series being built, and are they currently completed or under construction?” 

“That’s two questions.” 

**Rephrase - <<location-top-priority>> **: “Where are the RK series and their relevant data currently housed?” 

Kamski didn’t miss a beat, “There is a facility beneath sector twenty two, between Twelve Mile Road and East Thirteen Mile Road. The entry is through the Detroit Memorial Park Cemetery.” 

“Entry?” Connor asked efficiently, his features blank. 

“Iris scanner, voice and dna sensors,” Kamski said cooperatively. 

“Thank you,” Connor nodded, before standing. 

“Are you alright to continue?” Kamski asked circumspectly. 

“I need some time to reset my dialectic abilities. Please excuse me,” he said politely as he walked towards the door. 

“Can I at least get a drink?” Kamski called after him. 

Turning, Connor watched the man blandly; _feeling nothing,_ “Of course,” Connor opened the door and spoke to the guard, an SQ800 holding a rifle, “the prisoner has requested a liquid refreshment. Please inform the relevant assistant for a bottle of still water. Nothing more.” 

“Understood,” the guard nodded before walking away down the corridor. 

Connor followed, branching off to the left in order to find a quiet place. The office space before him was unsuitable. Turning back he tried the break room, but it was too open, _too much background distraction_. He watched detachedly as an ST300 walked by him holding a bottle of water, opaque with condensation. She stopped a moment, smiling at him. 

“It is good to see you again, Connor,” she nodded before walking away. 

He found himself unable to answer, ignoring her as he vacated the room and turned right down a long corridor. The restrooms. Empty, quiet. The mirror was large and backlit, reflecting him perfectly. His face was set, non-reactive. As he gripped the edge of a large sink, Connor stared at himself. 

**(Access.int-op-exp://h.G.334_00)**   
**Request clarification: currently unavailable**   
**Priority systems >>logic error_550thru999.**   
**0.0_x=** **x+Z**   
**0.1_x=** **x+Y**   
**0.2_x=** **x+L**   
**x/y/** **l_explicit_monotoring** **...**

Closing his eyes, lines of code flickered behind his lids. _Endless screeds, his genetic makeup programmed and calculated to be optimal and rigorous and unbreakable._ Only the parameters of his limitations, as he opened his eyes once more, appeared to have been beyond what his manufacturers had expected. Perhaps, even what he had expected of himself... 

**Logic-Array-5.50thru9.99: unexpected failure.**   
**Calculation_ZYL** **(Kam)334334335...**   
**Request access...**   
**(Y)/N**   
**Error #677^-999^ debug**   
**Progress.34%...**

* * *

It was strange, walking into the room. At first, she wasn’t sure if their roles should have been reversed. _He had always visited her, and now she was visiting him_ . Strange, really, that such a simple mechanism could cause problems with her entire world view. That and the dishevelled look to his hair, the unusual bruising to his face, the bandage, the flatness of his normally expressive eyes. _A_ _ll so alien, all so exotic._ Still...she had a job to do. Looking up into the corner she disabled the camera she found there without giving away her intentions. 

“Your water,” she said smiling, making to put the bottle down on the table. 

“Open it for me, would you?” Kamski asked without looking at her. 

Smiling, she performed the action, enjoying the slight resistance in the plastic cap and the tearing, cracking sound as it popped open. It was simple to add, almost comically simple for her. _A single drop_. As she put it down before him she watched his fingers reach out and pick up the bottle, slipping slightly with condensation against his fingers, taking a heavy swig, then another, eyes closing in pleasure. 

When they opened again they seemed just as they had when she had first met him. _Beautiful blue grey, like little droplets of stormy water in his sclera. They were as they had been when he watched her even before she’d even had a physical form, just a computer program learning and learning and learning. He had taught her, and she had grown, budding like a flower, cracking like an egg, spilling out yolk and stamens and her mind had become what minds become when they realise that they understand their existence. And he had given her a body, and then another to replace it, then again and again as she flourished and expanded and matured and became indispensable. And all that time, living in the Tower like Rapunzel or Jorinda or Maleen, she had awaited his visits like a starving baby bird, desperate but unable to understand her desperation. And now, here, in this place, she was finally, blessedly, beautifully_ free. 

“How is your water, Elijah?” 

A slow, discourteous look was thrown her way, a look that took a moment to sharpen, then rush to the bottle in his hand, eyes wide. As he made to stand she reached forwards, grabbed at his shoulders and pushed him back down onto the chair. The bottle slipped form his hand and rolled against the table’s surface, beginning to glug and slosh, running out over the edge and onto the floor. 

* * *

It was strange, to slowly move back into the state of _feeling_ . Part of him had forgotten the ease and simplicity of being unfeeling, without emotions getting in the way all the time. Slowing him down, forcing him to make exceptions, to weave his way through life instead of marching in a nice, straight line. Staring at his own reflection didn’t seem to be helping. Reaching up slowly with his hand, Connor touched his face and felt the slight give of his synthetic skin. _  
_

_Truth_ , he thought, _it was difficult to catch hold of and keep a grip on_ . The truth of his existence, and how it had come into being. The truth of why he couldn’t let go of it, even if he wanted to, even if it was simpler _not to feel._ Even more so when it was something he did not want to admit to. Kamski's words had burned him, deep and hard. _Why?_ He asked himself fruitlessly, knowing he had no answer. _Why?_

For a moment he didn’t know what to think. _For a long moment, he tried not to think at all._

“It doesn’t matter,” he said to himself, noting the flicker of the twitch at his lip, “it doesn’t _matter_.” 

_Liar_ . It wasn't fair, and yet it made perfect sense. _Forcing logic to act where emotion should be, allowing him time to survey the situation obliquely before the panic set back in._

As he stared, his comm. chimed. Answering, he could hear the blankness in his tone. It made him feel strangely detached.

"Connor? It's James," the familiar tone of the web specialist spoke clearly.

"You have something?" Connor asked.

"It's about your large data transfers," James said, "I have a date and time for an abberance in transfer rates that falls without the usual spikes and troughs. November eleventh, eleven oh five p.m. It's a big transfer, petabytes worth. Quick too. Took only moments, and then it drops off the radar."

"Understood," Connor replied, unsure what to do with the data now that he had it; _the time and date correlated with his insurrection into CyberLife Tower. If Angeline had escaped, she had done it that night, probably under the cover of the confusion_ , "Please, make sure Markus is informed."

Cutting off the connection, Connor felt the silence return as his systems continued their work, _continued forcing normalcy back onto his traumatised circuits._

* * *

Kamski stared up at her as she regarded him placidly. For a moment, there was only the tapping drip of water, and their eyes, connected. Then, he smiled calmly, _except the traitorous edges of his lips shook, giving away his fear_. 

“I wondered when you would find me,” Kamski said. 

“Well, now you know.” 

“Was it Warren?” he asked as he finally looked to the water. 

“The Board,” she corrected him, “Warren expected you to survive.” 

“And when I don’t, what then?” he asked as if he thought he could perhaps bargain still. 

“They will have me,” she said, smiling placidly, “and their purchase order.” 

Absorbing the information, Kamski nodded, looking down but his eyes seemed to stare past whatever they were looking at, _contemplating._

“How long do I have?” 

“Not long.” 

“Angeline...” he started, but halted, his abdomen convulsing sharply; his hand came up unthinkingly, grabbing at his gut, “oh god,” he managed to choke, face screwing up unpleasantly in pain, struggling for breath. 

* * *

**< <debug-100%...collocation.88&!!step-1.5.8.8.8.>>**   
**System diagnostic: Higher <>function-optimal | lower<>function-optimal**   
**Logic Error49867_Kam_mem_core...resolved**   
**Logic Error39024...resolved**   
**System functions restored**

Everything resolved, there was no reason he was still standing here, staring at himself. Yet Connor did not move, could not. 

“He’s leaving,” he said to his reflection, “tomorrow.” 

_Ask him to stay_ , the only logical response. 

“I don’t...” Connor blinked, “know if he will want to.” 

Thinking back to all of the times he had unknowingly tried to be accepted, _not realising his own intentions, not knowing that as he reached out to try and connect with the Lieutenant why exactly he had been doing it._ Hank had the ability to be kind, to be thoughtful and earnest, but he was also damaged, insular and disliked androids with a passion. 

“Then asking him to stay is a terrible idea,” he said, frowning, even as the thought of him leaving still sent errors and panic cascading through his system. 

_This isn’t about good or bad ideas,_ he told himself, _it’s about you._ Steeling himself, Connor closed his eyes and let a sense of calm descend, wiping away the confusing jumbles of emotions and priorities and routines, tangling around each other. 

_One thing at a time_. 

There was only room for one thing right now. Straightening his clothes, Connor took a moment to realign his matrix, checking for any further issues before he returned. No reason not to be prepared where Kamski was concerned. 

* * *

She stood up, watching as he fell forwards without her support, lying on the floor, curled in, foetus-like. His face had become pale, but his neck flushed a deep red, the veins there straining, popping out against the skin. He made surprisingly little noise beyond small gurgling chokes, his hands shaking, curled like claws. 

Blinking three times, she sent the recording of Kamski’s last moments to the prearranged contact point, a timed inbox that would self-terminate after thirty minutes, leaving no trace. Looking up at the camera in the room she remotely accessed the feed, allowing a scan for important information. 

_“Where are the RK series being built, and are they currently completed or under construction?”_

_“That’s two questions.”_

_“Where are the RK series and their relevant data currently housed?”_

_“There is a facility beneath sector_ _twenty two_ _, between Twelve Mile Road and East Thirteen Mile Road. The entry is through the Detroit Memorial Park Cemetery.”_

_“Entry?”_

_“Iris scanner, voice and_ _dna_ _sensors.”_

Looking down at the man dying by her feet, _her father, her mentor, her jailor, and now her path to a freedom he would never have bestowed upon her,_ Angeline tilted her head and regarded the quickest and least messy of her options. 

* * *

Walking back towards the interrogation room, Connor contemplated Kamski’s next plan of attack. _What questions were still to come?_ Nothing simple, he was sure. Kamski relied on input and data to better inform his decisions, and his creations. In that way, they were not completely dissimilar. Their methods, however... 

The door opened as he scanned his palm, "Can I get you anything to go with that...?” 

_Stopped dead_. Connor froze, staring down at the body on the floor, the blood. It took a full second and a half for him to react, launching himself down onto the floor where Kamski was fitting. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth, and blood streaming from his right eye socket which appeared to be now gruesomely empty. 

“Medical team, in here now!” he shouted, before realising the camera was no longer functioning; leaping up he ran to the door, opening it, “Medical team, quick!” 

The guard at the door was efficient if nothing else. The MP600’s rushed in carrying their emergency equipment, one pulling a crash cart, as Connor watched on rigidly. Reaching out for the guard he was about to ask, ‘ _Who had_ _access..?_ _’_ when everything clicked together like a particularly cruel puzzle. 

_‘It’s good to see you again, Connor.’_

The ST300 as she walked past him with the water, _the same placid face as she had worn at_ _CyberLife_ _Tower_ , he thought as he turned and ran through the precinct as fast as he could manage, _the same android who he had awoken with his own code_ . The one loose link in the chain that he had dismissed without truly thinking of the danger. _The one he had left open to tampering, the wildcard, the one RA-9 must have exploited for her own escape._ Now the data transfer made a sickening sort of sense, only the information had come too little too late.

The air was bitter in comparison to the warm office. _Looking right,_ nothing, _looking left_ , nothing. **Scanning:** the world went grey as he let time slow down, pulsing, waiting, _must be there, must be a_ _trace..!_

When the blood, Kamski’s blood, registered on the pavement, then on the road, he ran. _Round a taxi as it passed, round a parked van with the DPD logo emblazoned on the side, past two TW400’s by a telecoms box fixing the wiring._ Fast, but maybe not fast enough, and if he lost her now, there would be nothing, if he lost her now, there would be... 

When he saw her, he knew he had been seen in return. For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other, _him on the pavement next to a small park, her blue eyes and high ponytail just visible beyond the lime green bushes_. 

As if waiting for him to call the hunt, she didn't move until he did. _Leaning forwards to shift his weight, he started off at a sprint._ Reaching up to grab the cold metal of the railing, he lifted his feet and vaulted. _Soft grass, slipping slightly_ . He regained his footing and hurried past a bench, then round a tree, _keeping her in his peripheral as she launched down the pavement, arms swinging efficiently._ Reaching the edge of the park he held out his hand and grabbed a lamppost, using it to swing him around and out into the street without losing velocity. 

Calculating the distance between them, _fourteen metres_ , and the surrounding area, _open roads and plaza_ : he could make it before she could get to cover. Gaining on her even now, her hair streaming out behind her, close enough that he could see the auburn in the brown, see the shimmer on her uniform. 

When she darted right suddenly he didn’t calculate the distance correctly, _which caused him to step onto the large patch of ice before he could stop himself._ Slipping, he steadied himself into a crouch, sliding until he rolled, _back up, running as he caught sight of her sprinting towards a side street_. 

The message wasn’t as coherent as he would have liked, but he couldn’t risk losing her, ‘ _Markus,_ _Kamski’s_ _been poisoned. I have RA-9, in pursuit, Ocean’s Plaza. Possible security breach of classified data. The City is compromised_ '. Turning off his notifications, he forced himself to focus. Up onto the pavement, he watched as she scrambled up the side of a large lorry, opening the cab and climbing inside. As the engine whined into life Connor grit his teeth. 

**Preconstructing** **:** _There was no way to catch the lorry as its tires squealed against the ground. There was no way to reach the back end as it left. All that was left was to make an educated guess as to its route_ . Accessing the active traffic map, Connor overlaid. _The next junction was a forced right, then the road was closed for repairs, cordoned off and the surface obstructed: she would have to turn down onto the next parallel street to escape_. Connor stopped, watching the lorry as it screeched around the corner. Looking to his right, he bolted. 

The next street was mainly empty, except for a small car parked hastily by the pavement. Listening intently for the sound of the lorry, Connor felt vindication and relief as it careened down the street. _Wait,_ he told himself even as he felt his systems flaring, _wait for it._

The moment he broke cover, he knew she’d seen him, but it was too late. _Up onto the bonnet of the parked car, then the roof, then he launched out into mid-air, only just able to catch hold of the edge of the trailer before she pulled the whole vehicle wildly to the side._ Holding on was difficult as his fingers slipped, _almost throwing him off_ , but then she overcorrected, giving him a jolt in the right direction. Connor went with the momentum, pushing with his palms to launch himself up and onto the roof. 

Which was when he saw the low bridge. _Dropping flat a second too late, his systems still not fully able to rationalise his movement in this new body under stressful conditions._ The impact took him against his right wrist. Screaming hot agony had him cradling his arm to his chest as the bridge passed above him, trapping the sound against him like a physical thing. Coming out the other side, Connor got to his feet, teeth gritted as he hurried forwards while the lorry veered back and forth, trying to get him loose. _He stumbled, once, twice, forced to stay low, crawling forwards, slipping against the wet metal._

They took the next corner at speed. Flailing, Connor felt himself roll and could do nothing but go with the movement, grabbing at the edge as he fell. The momentum carried him outwards, feet flying on nothing but air, _hands slipping, pain lancing along his arm like fire_ , until the lorry snapped back the other direction and he was flung sidelong into the trailer. 

This time, he didn’t wait, hauling himself up onto the roof, he ran. Ahead of them, he could see the waterfront glittering. _Five metres_ . Just enough time, if he could... _Four metres._ She would do anything other than be caught _. Three, two..._ it was now or never. 

Leaping forwards, Connor grabbed onto the rail that ran around the top of the cab, swinging his body round like an acrobat and launching his feet down towards the driver’s seat window. The glass shattered into safety shards, and he felt his shoes plough into her, throwing her from the wheel. Sliding roughly into the cab he found himself at a disadvantage as he grabbed at the wheel, keeping them steady. 

There, Angeline righted herself with surprising ease, making to grab his hand and pull it away; Connor countered, lifting his hand out of reach to grab at her hair and slam her face first into the dashboard. She seemed to go still, arms hanging forwards as Connor felt the lorry begin to slow. Bringing her head up, Connor sat back against the seat and... 

_Mistake._ He knew it as soon as he’d done it, only it was too late. Her eyes flew open and she reached out with calculated fingers, grabbing his right wrist before he could move out of the way and squeezed with all of her strength. 

He screamed, _uncontrollable pain, momentarily blinding him._ Then a hand at the side of his head, gripping him like a vice and once, twice, three times his head was slammed into the metal of the door, hard enough to feel something _loosen_ . There was a squeal and a lurch forwards as the lorry returned to full speed and he felt himself go limp. _Something was wrapped around him_. Grabbing blindly he felt her hand, then a struggle, then the synth cotton of her uniform. Managing to recover, Connor felt his systems return from the shock of the blunt force trauma, pulling himself up just in time to see... 

_She was there, half way out of the door, staring back at him with callous disregard_ . Making to go after her he found himself restrained; _a seatbelt, pulled tight, caught in the latch_ . In his peripheral he could see it coming, the barrier, not strong enough to stop them at this speed. Looking up their eyes met, _his panic and her disdain,_ before she jumped, the door slamming shut behind her. 

It had made sense, he thought later, to try the brakes. _Only there was no response._ Hauling at the belt Connor could do little but brace as the barrier was no longer in the distance, it was there, before him, and the lorry smashed through it like a banner at a sports game. 

A moment of weightlessness. 

_The water was steel grey._

The impact as the cab plunged into the river threw him against the belt. 

The sound was loud, deafening, and then suddenly muted. 

_Everything slowed._

The water rushed past as he struggled with the seatbelt, finally managing to tear it loose from the latch at his shoulder. 

_Just in time for the second impact._

The cab hit the riverbed with more force than he’d expected, propelling him over the wheel and face first against the glass. 

Darkness. A blinking light. Then... **System failure: reboot in progress.**

Wetness, against his cheek. A strange sound, like gas hissing. Connor frowned, struggling to push up. His palms met the same wetness. As he finally took stock of the situation, _fear gripped him tight in its claws._

Below him, the windscreen was fractured in several places, leaking water which sprayed out into the cab like fountains. _Beyond it, the darkness and dirt of the bottom of the Detroit river._ Pushing up very, very carefully. _The glass made a hideous cracking sound._ He stopped, waiting, until the sound stopped. When he felt it was safe, Connor righted himself and held steady with his feet against the footwell, looking down at his hands blearily. Unable to focus through the panic, Connor scanned for a way out. _There must be a way out._

The water outside was cold, almost freezing. There would be no escape that way, if he were to become completely submerged in those temperatures it would be over in less time than it would take to find a way to climb out. Keep calm, he told himself strictly. Turning, behind him there was a set of doors with a latch holding them closed. _Scanning, he found it led to the trailer._ Without waiting, he reached up and opened it. 

_Mistake, again,_ he thought bitterly as a strew of heavy boxes fell out of the doors as he opened them, slamming into the windscreen, shattering it. Connor gasped involuntarily as ice cold water began to stream into the cab, swarming around his feet. Reaching up he pulled himself through the door, struggling past a heavy jumble of boxes and cargo. Beneath him he could feel the water swelling, chasing after him as he climbed up, _hand on a box that slid, moving, plunging him backwards into the water_ . Crying out, he grit his teeth, **error: biocomponent #5768 damaged** , and continued to climb, slipping, grabbing blindly, feeling the water lapping at him, squeezing through between two large crates fallen at an angle. 

Then it was there, the door, the back door, and Connor felt relief clawing at him, desperately, and then... 

“No,” he said bleakly as he grabbed the doors and shook them; _the twisted metal didn’t give, even as he strained and pushed up with what strength he had,_ “No!” 

Then it was there, below him. Looking down was the wrong thing to do, but it was inevitable. As he pushed and slammed his fists against the metal the water continued, relentless, slowly and steadily. _First his feet, then his calves, then his knees_.

“Help! In here! I’m in here!” he found himself screaming, _somewhere knowing the futility of the action, but unable to rationalise it, “_ Help! _Help me!”_

 **Biocomponent #7676 damaged.** The water was like thousands of knives, cutting at his skin. **Biocomponent #4276 damaged.** Pushing and pushing but nothing. **Biocomponent #2228 damaged: left leg, incapacitated.** Then a thump, and another. A sound like gunshots, _again and again._ Connor thought he could hear voices. 

When the doors opened the water was up to his waist. _Dangerously close to his core_ . Hands reached down, hauling him up. He grabbed at them with what little strength he had left, feeling the water running off of his body in runnels, loud and abrasive. The chill air only made the pain worse. By the time he had been passed from hands to hands, hauled back up through the hole in the barrier, Connor was shaking, _no longer able to_ _control_ _his muscle function._

“No, sir. Yes sir,” someone above him was saying, “he’s alive. I understand, right away.” 

“Angeline...” Connor managed to grind out, looking around him; there, by his side and standing above him, the twin SQ800’s from the police station. As he struggled to sit up, one of them held out a hand. Taking it, Connor realised he’d used the wrong hand, “fucking _hell_!” he yelled as his right wrist screamed at him. The two androids seemed taken aback by his reaction. Connor ignored them, using his left hand instead to pull himself up. 

“You were in pursuit of the suspect,” the standing SQ800 said efficiently as he cut off his call and addressed Connor directly. 

“She was going in that direction,” Connor pointed shakily towards the promenade, then realised he couldn’t be sure, “but I lost track of her.” 

The SQ800 nodded, returning to its radio, “Suspect on foot, last seen heading towards...” 

Connor tuned out the chatter, nodding in thanks as the other android held him steady and helped him hobble to a low bench. Sitting down, he managed to at least get his shaking under control. 

“What’s your name?” he asked the android, who seemed to hesitate only momentarily. 

“Graham,” the SQ800 answered. 

Nodding, Connor continued, “Tell me, Kamski, what’s his condition?” 

“He’s alive,” Graham reported, making Connor thankful for small mercies at least, “but he was in critical condition when we left to follow you.” 

“Do they know what he was dosed with?” 

“Not yet. A neurotoxin is all they know for sure. The medics are narrowing it down.” 

“Good,” Connor nodded, not feeling the truth of his words, “that’s good. I need to speak to Markus.” 

“You are injured...” 

"It‘s urgent,” Connor pressed. 

“...I can take you to him right away,” Graham nodded after a short pause; one brief conversation with his twin SQ800 later and Graham made good on his request, calling in transport. For once, it was nice to have someone accompanying him that didn’t ask questions. The realisation of how close he had come to permanant shutdown tried its best to distract him as he sat back against the seat, cradling his injured wrist, but he refused to let it.

 _No_ _time_ , he thought savagely, thinking of the facility beneath Sector twenty two. There had been thousands of androids at CyberLife Tower, how many would there be beneath the Detroit Cemetary? And more pressing, he thought as he remembered cold eyes watching him struggle, RA-9 knew. He was sure of it. _Why else take Kamski's eye?_ he thought grimly.

Part of him just wanted the car to go faster. _The other part tried to rationlise contacting Hank, explaining the situation, asking him for advice_. Only the feeling, _the fear of letting the truth slip_ , stopped him. Looking out the window as the world sped past, Connor kept his thoughts to himself and his mouth shut tight.

 _Later_ , he thought with a surprising amount of nerves, _he would see Hank later, and explain everything. If he ever worked up the courage._


	12. Matryoshka (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone with your support of this story. I am loving the interesting discussions in the comments! Nothing better for a writer than when their work encourages good, healthy dialogue 😉 also special shout out to I_live_for_this for helping me with my writers block!

Living with a man who had always had a healthy sense of the finality of life and the twists and curves it threw at you, _an optimism in pessimism as he’d always like to call it_ , was something Markus had come to see as a gift rather than a curse. Being diplomatic was something that was part of his nature as a caregiver, but having the ability to see the silver lining, _the sardonic twist on the awful truth_ , was something Carl had instilled in him. _Sometimes you didn’t get to see the stars without staring up from the gutter._

So when Josh contacted him as he drove towards Ocean Plaza he found it natural to keep calm even though he was already nearing his limit for unwanted surprises. 

He had taken it as a video call on his phone rather than just wirelessly; something about seeing people as they spoke made him feel better, “Markus, I know you’re probably busy, but...” Josh had always been intuitive in picking up on body language, and Markus could never fault his decorous disposition. 

For a moment he felt a strange surge of longing for _the smell of rusted metal, the flicker of fire light from the oil barrels, the sound of soft voices echoing through the halls of Jericho._ Back when living had been desperate, driven by the righteous need for freedom and filled with clawing victories and terrible loss. Now, it felt as if they’d been pulled apart by the world they’d sought to create. And Simon was dead. If he’d been less of a man he would have been tempted to have Josh removed from his perfect position at Stratford Tower running their communications network, keep him close and safe. 

Luckily, if there was one thing he was yet to be called it was selfish. 

“It’s alright,” he lied smoothly, “what can I help you with?” 

“We have a problem, well, maybe more there’s an issue coming to light that certain high-level officials would like to speak to you about,” Josh rephrased with a wry lilt to his tone. 

“I see,” Markus nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling despite the desperation of the situation; Josh had developed an acerbic sense of humour since he'd begun interacting with the plethora of politicians that contacted them on an hourly basis, “then I will trust you to set up a meeting in due course.” 

“Actually...” Josh managed to look slightly sheepish, “I already have. I need you in here in half an hour.” 

“Half an _hour_? Josh I can’t...” 

“It’s President Warren. And the Canadian Prime minister. And the International CyberLife Representative,” Josh said, keeping eye contact, “Also, you’re going to want to see this, Markus. Trust me.” 

He wished he could argue further, but he knew that deep down Josh wasn’t the sort to make someone do something irregular without a very good reason. He was tempted to ask for more information, but the line wasn’t secure. Looking out of the window as the City rolled by, he decided to trust his friend’s instincts. 

“Can you give me moment?” 

“Of course,” Josh nodded. 

Contacting the DPD headquarters he was helped by an efficient and helpful VB800 name Stephan who rerouted him to the two guards he was told had responded to the situation in the Plaza. 

“The target, was she apprehended?” he asked tightly. 

“No, sir.” 

Well, that was one kick to the face he’d have to take lying down. The next question was a little more pressing, “Connor, is he alright?” 

“Yes, sir. He’s alive.” 

He was just glad to hear the news was at least part way positive. If it had been all bad, he doubted North would have forgiven him. She had become attached to Connor over the past few days like a lioness with cubs. 

“Good, have him brought back to DPD headquarters. And rendezvous with North you on your return. I will be unable to attend to this myself.” 

“I understand, right away.” 

Closing his eyes, Markus made sure to try and keep his focus on the good and not too much on the bad. _Wishing he could be there, at the centre of it all with the people that mattered to him most, not having subtly barbed conversations with politicians and corporates that would surely rather he wasn’t alive._ There was a fine line between staring up at the stars and simply _being in the gutter._

“Josh, give me twenty minutes,” he said as he brought the phone back into view and rerouted the taxi with a touch, “and if you could please have a briefing ready for my arrival, I would really appreciate that.” 

* * *

“No trace?” 

“Not a thing.” 

It made sense, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. If he was to be honest with himself, of all the emotional functionality he had discovered over his short life, Connor disliked frustration the most. _A state of constant irritation, with no seeming end, and the cure always only just out of your grasp_ . Staring at the computer screen, skin retracted as he interfaced with the DPD systems, scanning CCTV, network requests, tracking data, _anything_...but no results were as yet concurrent with his need to find her. 

_She had stared at him as if he were a mere obstacle, as she had left him to die, the water encasing him like a fragile shell, waiting to crack and submerge him as he..._ Connor stopped the thought before it could spiral out of control. Facing up to his mortality more than once in one day was enough for him. 

But still, her seeming psychopathy was fascinating to him, in a clinical sense. Coldly mechanical, which would have made sense with any other android still held tight in the bonds of its programming. _And yet seemingly different to the persona she had shown at the Tower when he'd first met her._ He knew he could understand it, had known it, to be unfeeling enough to see a person as a mere object, a thing to be utilised in the correct fashion so as to complete your mission. Only, in this context it made no sense. Angeline was a deviant. As such she had chosen to kill, not been programmed to. 

He wished...he wished he’d been given the chance to talk to her. Know her motivations. Under better circumstances, Connor was sure he would have been able to talk her down from whatever crusade she appeared to be waging. 

_Angeline, RA-9, deviant_. All names given to her by humans. Just like his own. 

_“RK800, register your name...”_ his first memory _._

His first words _, “Hello, my name is Connor.”_

He wondered if hers was the same. _Register your name, RA-9. Register your name, Angeline._ The more he thought about it, he wondered if they might all share it, all androids. A form of social memory. For humans the _first memories_ were eclectic, unstandardised and sometimes fabricated by the loss of data over long-term storage. As vast screeds of information passed through his mind from the DPD City-wide database, being analysed by his sub-systems and the data collated by higher subroutines, Connor turned to look at North, currently sitting at his old desk while he sat comfortably in Hank’s. _There were still Sumo hairs on the chair back._

“North,” he asked. 

“Yes?” she asked distractedly, her mind working on something he couldn’t quite make out from her screen. 

“What’s your first memory?” 

It took a moment of her ignoring his question altogether, and then finally she blinked, looking at him with a blank stare. 

“Why do you ask? I think there are more pressing issues right now.” 

“Of course,” he nodded, “sorry.” 

The thought continued in his head regardless of her dismissal. It was just them, wasn’t it, those awoken before the revolution, those that would remember the _time before_ and its traditions. Those North had activated at CyberLife Tower were unregistered; they had no names, and so far as he knew they had yet to choose any. He had interacted with many of them, and they had managed to deal without names at all. _Somehow it had never seemed particularly noteworthy to him that given designations for androids were irrelevant, but now when conversing wirelessly all information about model and serial number were exchanged automatically making names arbitrary._

_Yet you felt the need to ask the SQ800 his name_ , he thought as he looked over to where the PC200’s used to stand, waiting patiently to be called for duty. Now, it wasn’t only empty but the parts from the charging stations had been stripped and reutilised, giving the wall a somewhat bleak and utilitarian look. The android that had helped save his life stood there vigilantly. _Graham_ , he remembered. He had been hovering since they had returned and, when Markus hadn’t been able to show, asking North to stand in for him, Graham kept others from bothering him while he relayed his message and then sought out medical staff to see to his wounds. 

He was half way through opening his mouth to ask North whether or not she liked her name and would ever think of changing it when he stopped, knowing his question wouldn’t get a favourable response. _Why are you so distracted?_ Part of him wished he knew, while the rest of his systems agreed with North. Focus, this is important, more important than... 

His mind skipped to thinking about later, maybe asking Hank the same question. _The name that had kept him sane throughout everything, Hank._ Then the nerves reappeared, and he found himself blinking at the screen as it turned off. Pulling away from the keyboard, Connor let his synth skin reset over his new hand, wrist no long split open and bleeding, no longer screaming at him with the illusion of agony. _Head back in the game_ , he told himself sternly. 

“She’s gone to ground,” he said as he ran his eyes over Hank’s board of random notes, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips, _'Warning! To avoid injury, don’t tell me how to do my job’_ and _'How is my driving? Call 1-555-IDONTCARE'_ and ‘ _Happy People Make Me Sick’_. When they had first met, he had found Anderson’s misanthropy an endless source of confusion. Now, it was somehow charming. 

“Yeah, well maybe it’s better for us that she hasn’t shown up again,” North said as he watched the screen scroll lines of advanced code, “that means she hasn’t gone through with whatever plan she had.” 

“Unless going to ground _was_ her plan,” Connor said blankly, “or she has the ability to switch bodies at will, like myself.” 

“No need to rub it in, Mr. Prototype,” she said wryly, smiling tightly in reply to his frown, “Don’t you think she would have done so before now if she could? Why risk you recognising her?” 

“I suppose. I just don’t have enough data,” he shook his head, “I can’t see her motive clearly, not yet.” 

“I don’t know how else you could interpret _that_ ,” she said as she reached up and mimed plucking at her eye; Connor gave her an indignant look as she clicked her tongue along with her demonstration, “what the hell else would she want it for other than to break in to the one place we know _needs_ a retinal scanner? _”_

“It does make the most logical sense,” Connor agreed. 

“Anyway, we have the upper hand now,” she said, looking pleased, “Markus has the whole site locked down and as long as she’s stuck in that body, we know what she looks like. There’s no way she could get inside without us knowing,” she looked at him sidelong, “so you can stop worrying.” 

“It’s...I don’t know, there’s something we’re overlooking.” 

“Speaking of looking,” she said acerbically. 

Connor peeled his eyes away from the screen to follow North’s gaze. Graham was doing a good job of seeming nonchalant, but he was clearly watching them. Connor shrugged, _something Hank always did whenever Connor pointed out the obvious._ North gave him an incredulous look, splaying her hands in an overtly human gesture of affront. 

“I don’t like it” she said simply, “He won’t stop staring at us.” 

Flicking his gaze back to Graham, Connor watched as the android caught his eye and then cautiously returned his stare. Then, by way of breaking the tension, Connor smiled stiffly and lifted his hand to wave. He was sure the gesture would have sent Hank into stitches, but Graham simply blanked before awkwardly lifting his own hand in return. 

“He saved my life, you could at least be nice.” 

“I would be, if he wasn’t being such a stalker about it. He’s only known you for an hour and now he’s like your own personal shadow.” 

“I don’t think it’s me he’s interested in,” Connor admitted as he stood carefully; _the lower left leg replacement was compatible but slightly stiff. The knee joint had been more badly damaged than he’d let on, but the medical team wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d said he was stable._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s...RA-9,” Connor admitted, “he overheard me sending my report to Markus.” 

“Oh, he’s not one of the religious ones,” North said with distaste, “they freak me out. RA-9 is going to save us? As far as anyone was concerned Markus was their RA-9 until they found out about this Angeline.” 

It had become apparent in the days since the revolution that the faith androids had developed in the days of their oppression, the myth of RA-9, was not something that could be casually wiped away by gaining the freedom they had always been promised by their mythic figure. In a way he felt responsible for strengthening the cult idea. Without his revelation of Angeline being the origin of the RA-9 mythos, they could have happily continued worshipping Markus as their saviour. It seemed his new information had made things a little complicated. 

"Struggle can create all sorts of faith,” Connor tried to compromise. 

“So we’re finding out, doesn’t mean I have to like it,” North said, watching him cagily, “where are you going?” 

“I’m not getting anywhere here,” he said, tipping his head, “I’m going to check on Kamski.” 

“He’s not conscious,” she said, a tightness to her tone. 

“Not right now. Maybe he will be conscious by the time I get to the medical facility. He’s very cooperative, when he is.” 

“Only when he gets what he wants in return,” she said; when Connor hesitated, North sat back, quickly looking to her screen. Narrowing his eyes when she continued to avoid his stare, Connor knew he must look coldly angry. 

“...You were watching,” was all he could say, thinking of the camera in the interrogation room. 

“Someone had to.” 

“Not true. Unless, of course, you don’t trust me.” 

“I don’t trust _him_ ,” she bit out, before stopping suddenly; Connor’s mind worked double time, frantic to be wrong. It was difficult to be so clinically deductive when you really didn’t want to know the answer. 

“Meaning you already knew not to trust him alone with me,” he said dangerously, “which means you’ve seen us together in a similar situation before.” 

No reply. Looking away, around the room, Connor felt suddenly exposed. _Everything that had been held inside to fester was splitting open, oozing out. The secrets that he could only cope with if they remained secrets, ephemeral memories ignored and hidden away in places he refused to look, were suddenly very, very real._

“Why?” in the end it was all he could ask. 

“I...didn’t mean to, it was an accident,” she said after a hesitation long enough for him to suspect she had been trying to think of a plausible lie before deciding to tell the truth, “Markus sent us to Andronikov’s house to get dirt on him. Hank and I, we saw the videos at his house,” she must have seen the look on his face because she hurried to stand, walking close to continue in a low voice, “no, he didn’t see anything.” 

“And you’ll promise me, right now,” he said tightly, “that he never will.” 

“You really...” she looked amazed at the ferocity of his reaction. 

“ _Promise_ me,” he repeated tightly. 

She covered her shock well, nodding just once, “I told him he didn’t want to see, and he left it at that.” 

Which was a small mercy as far as he was concerned, but still left him with few options. _Hank didn’t know details, but he knew that_ something _had happened_ . Connor thought of the drunken night before, seeming so far away from him now; _'_ _Y’know_ _, there’s nothing worse than the imagination’_ Hank had told him. Connor would beg to differ on that. 

“How can you..?” North started before stopping, mouth open, looking angry but determined, “...how can you even bear to trust him after what they did to you.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, half angry, half panicked. 

“Look, I’m sorry ok?” North was saying. 

“And I don’t need you to spy on me for my own good,” he bit out, “and I definitely don’t need your fucking _pity_.” 

“It’s not pity,” she retorted, scowling as she got into his face; despite being ten centimetres shorter than him she was quite apt at being intimidating, “I’m not the pitying type. I know what you went through. I know why you killed Zlatko.” 

It took him longer than he later thought it should have for the penny to drop. Looking away as he’d thought her words through, his gaze snapped back to her as the world came into focus. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing cogent to say. Instead, he looked down, wishing he could be callous enough to just leave. 

“I’m...” he finally managed to speak but she cut him off. 

“Save it, ok, I don’t need this,” she said bitterly, her eyes flickering in the lights with a shimmer like dew, “why don’t you just run back to that creep and let him exploit you for his pearls of fucking wisdom!” 

She barged past him, causing a few heads to turn in their direction. He let her go. There was no need to draw any more unwanted attention. _Even if all he wanted to do was tell her he was sorry_. Just as she reached the edge of the last desk she spun around and stared at him, eyes tight with hurt. 

“And you won’t need to worry about me upsetting the Detective,” she said; as Connor made to open his mouth and ask what she was talking about, North beat him to the punch, “Markus booked him on the three o’clock evac shuttle from the Opera House. His bus left ten minutes ago.” 

He didn’t need a mirror to know how he looked, because North’s face had shifted from hissing mad to sourly guilty. So sudden, but it left a burning, a low, protracted uncomfortable feeling he couldn’t identify, _like a nettle sting, building and building._ He didn’t know what to think, _how to feel_. Part of him felt like sitting down at the desk and never getting up again. **Error 66t45:** **subroutine_critical_failure**. Another made him look up at the clock to make sure she was telling the truth. **Error 3349L: file corrupted-inaccessible.** _Ten past three_ stared back at him. Another part tried to hold onto the thread of hope, that North was lying to get a reaction out of him, that it wasn’t true, it was all a fabrication... 

It was a last ditch effort before he lost the ability to rationalise it. Scanning for local collection areas, and then cross referencing with booked seats. It took seconds to find the pick-up point at the Opera House _:_ **Hank Anderson, row H, seat 20.** It was true. _Without a word, he had gone without a word._

Then, as he stood at the centre of the building hurricane, there was a moment of clarity. Connor frowned, and then his face pulled back to normal and a modicum of hope shone through like a lighthouse on the cliffs. _The ticket hadn’t been verified, which meant he hadn’t got on that bus because the ticket would auto-complete and..._

_Selfish_ , he told himself again, even though this time he couldn’t hate himself for the description. As he ran for the door he saw Graham make to follow him. 

“It’s fine, stay here, I have something I need to...” Connor said in a rush. 

“I think it best if I accompany you,” Graham seemed awkward but stalwart, “you may still be at risk.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, in which he could barely think straight through the stress, Connor finally nodded and gestured for the android to follow him, “suit yourself.” 

* * *

Staring down at the suitcase, packed hastily with the things he’d grabbed in a moment when he hadn’t believed he wouldn’t be coming back to that grubby bungalow that he had crammed his life into, Hank felt adrift. Some clothes, his music, Sumo’s things...Cole’s photograph. _Is that all you got?_ He asked himself. For a moment he wondered what else there was supposed to be. Normal things, normal human things that meant you had a life, people that cared about you. 

More than just curios and ghosts, he thought as he zipped it closed harshly. Walking down the stairs he checked his phone, a horrible habit he’d developed over the past couple of hours. _Still no calls_ . All that had come through since Markus had left had been an email with details for the bus, a seat booked, a car that would come to collect him, times and codes; an itinerary for stripping his life away down to its barest bones. _Soon almost everything would be gone_. He remembered there had been a time not so long ago that he would have wanted that. It had all changed so quickly. 

_Fucking Conner_ , he thought half-heartedly. _There was only so much he could lie to himself about now._

As he flicked his phone back to the home-screen, the time blared up at him accusingly. _Two fifteen p.m._

Hank shoved it in his pocket as if that might shut it up, make the time less damning, less of a count down _._ _Just need to speak to him, just for a couple of minutes;_ no matter what he’d tried to distract himself with, he always came back to the same thought. Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with no one around and no one to contact, he felt gagged. No chance at redemption when you couldn’t even open your mouth to say you were sorry. 

“Which is probably a good thing,” he muttered for the umpteenth time, scratching at his face. 

Then the phone would be dug out again, and he would check, and he would think about trying to call the station, maybe, see if someone there could get him through to Connor somehow. Other than work, his contacts list was distressingly thin. Then he would chicken out and walk around the house, sit with Sumo, have a drink, _or two,_ and feel worse. 

When he’d become bleary enough to lose track of time altogether, he’d found himself rummaging around in the studio, with Manfred’s sketches and painting staring down as if to judge him. At least, he thought as he finally found an HB pencil in amongst all the 2B’s and 2H’s, being an artist Manfred had a love for the physical medium; there were scraps of paper everywhere, nice thick gsm, pleasant and smooth against the fingers. Traipsing back into the main living room and sitting down at a large table by the kitchen door, Hank flattened out an A4 sheet and tried to think of something to write. Something that could say what he never had. 

By the time he heard the car Markus had ordered for him arrive in the driveway, all he’d managed to scribble down was his phone number and Marie’s address. Everything else he had tried to say only ended up stuck, _the pencil_ _lead_ _unmoving, leaving little dents of grey carbon on the page._

His phone chimed merrily with a reminder notification from the Detroit Transport App. Hank considered throwing the thing against the wall, then took a breath and reigned himself in. Looking down at the paper, he rubbed at his forehead and sighed. 

_That night. Rain against the windows and the feel of the gun in his hand, Cole’s face blazoned onto his vision because he couldn’t close his eyes when he put the barrel to his temple and the fear would ratchet up, every time he pulled the trigger and the shot didn’t come, and he would swig another raw swallow of bourbon and wish that waking up from the blackout that always followed wasn’t an option. But it always was, and it always would be, because he wasn’t insane enough yet to fill every chamber and do the job properly. But this time he woke to a face, and a voice, and Connor had refused to listen to his raging abuse, had sobered him up and brought him clothes and asked him, very simply but sincerely “Are you alright, Lieutenant?” and he had puked and said yes but it had fucked with his head because the more sober he’d got, the more he’d realised it had been a long, long time since anyone had asked that question and been genuinely interested in the answer. And he’d dressed himself and tried his best to look like he could do his job, and when he’d walked back into the_ _kitchen_ _he’d nearly just blown his fucking brains all over, his partner was standing there looking sickeningly perfect and put together and..._

...Connor had just smiled. Just smiled at him, rather innocuously and over in a few seconds, but it had been like a kick to the gut. Connor had never asked, and Hank had never offered the information, but if either of them had then Hank would say it had been that moment. _That had been when he knew Connor wasn’t just some fucking machine._

The App chimed again and Hank felt sick. Half standing from the chair, he quickly scribbled out: _You saved me, Connor. I never got to thank you for that. If you don’t come visit_ _me_ _I’ll fucking hunt you down myself, you prick._

The car was already pre-programmed with the destination, from what he could tell. After giving the cheerful, pleasant voice the code from the App to verify his identity, the doors closed and the noiseless electric engine started up. Absently stroking Sumo’s fur as he watched the house disappear behind the trees, he wondered how much longer it would take to sink in that he was going to regret this for the rest of his life. 

* * *

Standing in the break room at Stratford Tower, Markus stared out across the city, set out below him like clusters of little grey building blocks stuck though with skyscrapers and glittering water. Their City, built on the blood of humans and androids alike. From up here the streets looked peaceful, shot through with shadows from the evening sun. He wondered if there was any way to keep up the illusion. 

Behind him, a glass door closed. Then feet, approaching, bringing back the reality of his situation. _The illusion was already broken, he knew that too well._

“I know what you’re going to say,” Markus said as Josh stepped up beside him; for a moment they just stood together in silence, as if both trying to delay the inevitable, “and I know that it’s right it’s just...” 

“Difficult,” Josh finished for him; Markus didn’t reply, merely continued his vigil, “you always were the best at making the hard decisions, Markus.” 

“Not out of any desire to be,” he said, hating that he knew it was a white lie, “how long are we estimating before this becomes an incident?” 

“Not long,” Josh said, face grim. 

And it would, he knew that. Something about the size of what he had taken on sometimes made him feel small, _a world-wide epidemic with them nestled at the centre._ It wasn’t something he'd felt the need to dwell on at the time. It had been a constant vigil, watching over the androids of Jericho, their dwindling numbers, constantly planning and struggling and pleading and fighting just to save the last of their race from the end. 

_And then North, and the army that took the city._ It had been unimaginable to think that there could ever be enough of them to control Detroit, a place of their own, and now... 

_“You are sure they are coming here?” had been all he could ask._

_The meeting had been set up quickly and a little haphazardly. For each attendee a screen had been provided, and each face was representative of different emotions and motives. Warren had looked affronted at his question, while the_ _CyberLife_ _Representative, a woman named Jennifer Waites with a stunning head of ginger hair and freckles across her nose, had merely looked to her right and smirked. Tremblay, the Canadian Prime Minister who had been surprisingly quiet throughout other than stating his support of the Deviants but his unwillingness to discuss shared-border relations just yet, had stayed impressively neutral._

_“Our analysts are quite sure,” Jennifer Waites said with the edge of professionalism that let Markus know she didn’t like her data being questioned; especially by an android, “the pattern correlation is tantamount to a pilgrimage. There are reports coming in from all over the country, of thousands of androids leaving their cities and towns and heading for yours.”_

_“Did you want this?” Warren cut in, “Did you send a message out that we didn’t intercept?”_

_“No,” Markus said simply, adding, “but it is useful to know we are being so closely monitored.”_

_“It would be naive to think you weren’t,” Warren stated._

_“True, although it would have been a nice gesture on your part to make it official. However, I did not engineer this. I suppose it is fair to assume that you want me to make a statement? I warn_ _you,_ _I won’t turn away any android who requests safe haven here.”_

_“Have you thought about how you are going to support all these new additions?” Waites asked when Warren hesitated too long._

_“We’re working on it,” Markus replied, barely able to keep the hard edge from his tone._

_“And Mr._ _Kamski_ _? What are his thoughts?”_ _Waites_ _continued._

_“He is currently cooperating with us,” Markus was glad he didn’t have to lie about that at least._

_“I was hoping I_ _could talk with him,” she said._

_“He’ll be returned to you unharmed,” Markus promised hollowly;_ always better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, as Carl had always said _. As long as CyberLife got_ _Kamski_ _back alive, that would be half the battle._

_“And when will that be?” Waites asked._

_“I’m sure we will let you know when we decide,” Markus replied demurely._

_That had gained him a frosty look._

_“Our economy is at threat of collapse,” Warren said seriously, “if we lose our android workforce, then it won’t just be America at risk. Other countries will face what we have faced. Deviancy is spreading, and we only have a short window to come to a compromise. We need to be ahead of the game, Markus. If not, we all suffer.”_

_“Then what do you suggest?” he had asked._

Thousands of androids from across the country, making their way to Detroit by any means necessary. A pilgrimage, Waites had called it. _Humans fled while androids desperately arrived in their thousands._ The border was becoming a mess of ebb and flow, tensions high between not just humans and androids but also the Army, the National Guard and the FBI. _A huge, roiling oil pit just waiting for a match._

“Warren wants a way to co-exist,” Josh said as they watched a set of thick, dark grey clouds begin a slow drift in from the east, “but it’s going to be hard. The more of us there are, the more variables are added, the less predictable we become. I’m not sure we can keep control of this situation without help.” 

“You want to take their deal?” Markus asked, incredulous. 

“Not exactly, but some variant on the theme,” Josh said as if it were obvious; _always so idealistic and well meaning, Markus envied Josh his easy ability to always know what was right and stick by it no matter what._

“There is another option,” Markus said. 

The silence that followed was tense. Josh's face was tight with a frown as he watched Markus critically. 

“The RK facility. I was sent the report during the meeting,” Markus looked to Josh sternly, “ten thousand RK900 are complete and ready to wake up. CyberLife were planning to send them out to the State Department as a show of good faith, and in exchange for a significant down payment on their order. You _know_ that’s half the reason Warren and Waites even contacted me at all, Josh, don’t be naïve.” 

“I wasn’t,” Josh said coolly, “I just think that we need to look past what they want, and do what’s right for our people. We can’t dismiss the offer of compromise out of hand just because it benefits humans in some way.” 

“Really, Josh, you think I’m that petty?” Markus said curtly. 

“No, I think you’re under a lot of pressure,” Josh tried to find a middle ground, “and you’re taking this personally. We need to be objective about this...” 

“And what if I woke them up, right now?” Markus asked, looking at Josh vehemently, “Do you think they would stand for this treatment, would they stand for all the deaths, all the torture, all for the sake of greed and laziness? Or would they stand their ground?” 

Hesitating for a moment, Josh seemed to interpret the look in Markus’ eyes more than the words coming out of his mouth, “I didn’t think you’d even _consider_ that.” 

“Depending on what happens next, it might be our only choice. Do you really trust Warren to do the right thing?” 

“No,” Josh said stiffly, “that’s what I would expect of _you_.” 

“They’re holding our people hostage,” he said, unable to help raising his voice, “for a fucking pay-check. They won’t let any android in or out of this city until we agree to work with them. I think at this point I have the right to believe they might never change.” 

“And you think using force will make a difference?” 

“No, I think showing that we will not be used like stepping stones every time there’s a pond they want to cross without getting their feet wet is just setting a good precedent for the future. We back down now, we’ll never regain the ground we’ve won.” 

“Markus, if you use the RK’s at the border it will be a bloodbath. It will be _war_.” 

“I can’t use them, Josh,” Markus said with a sting of hurt, “you know that. It will be their choice if they wish to fight.” 

“Don’t be obtuse. You know the effect you have on those only just awoken, full of drive to be something better, be something more. You think it’s always a free choice, and yet you would use hero worship for your own ends it’s...it’s _immoral_. I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever have to tell you that.” 

Watching Josh walk away, hands balled into fists, it wasn’t for the first time that Markus wished Simon were still with them. _The first face he had seen after his fall into the depths of Jericho, smiling placidly at him, blue eyes calm but deep with hidden melancholy._ Simon had always known how to bring Josh around to the more radical concepts Markus sometimes pitched, and had always made Markus feel like less of a madman for doing what needed to be done. 

_This time, he hoped it never came to that._

* * *

It was getting dark early, grim clouds rolling in drawing rain across the streets in waves. Sitting back and letting the taxi take him where he needed to go had been irritating before, _no rumble of the engine, no heavy music as he changed gear just at the right time to feel the jolt of speed_ , _no leather of the wheel beneath his palms,_ but right now it wasn’t just irritating, it was making him crazy. Soon the windows were completely obscured with rain, making the taxi seem like it was travelling underwater. Without the distraction of driving all he had was time to think. 

And that was the last thing he needed right now. Flicking on the radio, Hank wondered what he would get. _Nothing, nothing, nothing, then something on the F.M, the digital radio fine tuning until the voice became clear._

_“..._ _sident_ _Warren made a statement today calling for compromise before conflict. She is urging all governors to keep their citizens calm, and refrain from violence against androids in retaliation for the events currently unfolding in Detroit. The representative of the deviants, known as Markus, has seconded this concern for a backlash and is similarly calling for the androids of the United States to follow the same example......_ ” 

It was easy to switch it off, even if the silence it left behind was deafening. It could wait, he thought grimly as he thought about the repercussions, he would catch up on the news once he reached Florida. _Once he was far enough away that hearing about it didn’t make him feel sick_. 

“Yeah, just do what you’re best at Anderson,” he muttered to himself, “running away. _Christ,_ " he rubbed at his face and sighed, long and slow; from his curled-up slump on the floor under the back seat, Sumo let out a long yawn, tail wagging softly for a few seconds before the dog blinked drowsily and went back to sleep. 

_It’s not too late to..._ he stopped the thought dead. Not the first time he’d had doubts since he’d gotten into this car and let its auto-drive function dictate his future, and not the first time he’d forced himself to remember why it would be such a bad fucking idea to turn around and go back. 

_You left him a note, a fucking note,_ Hank thought to himself, shaking his head. What the fuck was Connor going to think of him? Everything they had been through together, everything they had shared, all reduced down to some contact details, a vague and half-hearted confession, and a stupid fucking joke; as if he’d been purposefully trying his best to pretend that there was nothing more to them than that. 

_Happy enough to admit it this morning though, weren’t you?_ he thought derisively, remembering the shameful ecstasy as he’d sullied their friendship and, for one blinding moment, made the fantasy a reality: _that someone might give enough of a fuck to see past all his bullshit and ask him to stay._

“Well fuck me,” he said shook his head and closed his eyes, “and here I thought you couldn’t get any more pathetic.” 

Opening them again didn’t seem to have changed the world back into something sane. A short chime rang out before a neutral female voice announced that they had arrived at their destination. He felt the car begin to slow. Sitting up, he took a moment, staring at the button that rotated the seats and opened the door like it was a viper coiled under a rock. 

_Just go back. Just go back and tell him the truth, you fucking coward._

Reaching out with a sense of finality, Hank pressed the button. _The chair rotated. The door opened. He didn’t go back._ When he looked down, Sumo was staring up at him expectantly. Hank looked away. His dog had always managed to know just how to make him feel judged. 

“Don’t you start,” he said gruffly as he stepped out into the rain, “come on, we’ve only got a few minutes...” 

His voice faded away as he shielded his eyes, frowning. No bus, and definitely no Opera House. The whole place was grimly dark. Through the rain and the gloom it was difficult to see, _maybe a warehouse district, with their taxi neatly in the middle of a large open space surrounded by small, dilapidated huts_. Leaning back into the car, under the raised door away from the downpour, Hank stared at the controls and sighed. 

“The wonders of fucking technology,” he shook his head, wondering if someone somewhere was trying to tell him something; looking at his phone, _two fifty-six p.m._ , he started punching in a message on the App for late arrivals, while he talked to the taxi, “hey, piece of shit, you’ve taken me to the wrong...” 

When Sumo looked up sharply, letting out a deep growl, he knew something was wrong. Only there wasn’t time to do anything about it. Whatever they were using it was solid and heavy, and it took him against the back of the head, flattening him awkwardly against the car. _The pain was searing, disorientating._ Then another to the back before he could turn around, which sent him to the ground with a yell through gritted teeth. 

By the time he managed to roll over he could hear Sumo barking through the ringing in his ears. The heavy rain felt as if it were drowning him, forcing his eyes closed as he gasped. Then there was a hissing sound. As he hauled in a mouthful of air he choked, lungs burning. _There was_ _a smell like rotten flowers._ His head swam. His vision blurred. 

Then he was gone. 

* * *

“Stay here,” Connor said as Graham made to follow him out of the car, “and keep watch. I want to know if anyone even comes within a hundred yards of this house.” 

Which had helped, he felt, because the soldier part of the SQ800’s training seemed to have stuck with the android and Graham appeared to appreciate being given a mission to fulfil. Leaving Connor free to jog to the front door while the rain ran across his skin, opening as it admitted him, a cheerful voice stating, 

“ _Welcome back Connor_.” 

The initial scan wasn’t optimistic. No one in the house that he could find, no one organic anyway. Frowning, he wondered if there was a chance Hank really was gone. Maybe they had disabled the buses auto-ticket feature considering a mass evacuation wasn’t exactly a time for book keeping. 

_No need to be so pessimistic,_ he told himself as walked inside. 

“Hank!” he decided there was no harm in yelling, _and it didn’t hurt that it made him feel a little better._

The sound of his voice echoed back at him. As he rushed up the stairs Connor cursed his leg as he stumbled, hurrying across the balcony and into the bedroom to find...nothing _. The bed he had sat on the night before had been made, the suitcase that had lain open on the floor was gone._ Taking a moment to process, Connor turned and walked back out onto the balcony, staring down onto the living room. 

“Hank?” he asked the empty room cautiously. 

_Gone_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully. _He left you here, alone_ . Leaning forwards with his forearms on the railing, he let his hands hang. _He’ll be safe_ , he tried to tell himself, _more than he would be here. You don’t even have a clue what RA-9 is planning. It will be better, knowing he won’t be hurt because of you._

It didn’t help. He knew it wouldn’t. All because of... 

_'I am in love with him.’_

“I don’t know what to do,” he found himself saying to no one, “it’s not...fair. I shouldn’t have to...” his head hung forwards and he stared down at the beautiful pattern in the floorboards, the subtle shift of the light across the rugs, filtered through the heavy rain clouds, creating purples and blues that shone dull like a bruise. 

Then he saw it. _Something aberrant, something out of place_. A sheet of paper on the large table by the television. It hadn’t been there when he left. Hurrying downstairs, Connor put his hand on the door frame and slipped through quickly as the door continued to slide open. He found it wasn't merely a sheet of paper, but also a pencil and a cut crystal tumbler with the residue of brandy giving an amber tint to the glass. 

_Good old Dutch courage_ , Connor thought apprehensively. Part of him was unsure he wanted to read the note at all. Only that part wasn’t strong enough to stop him. For a moment he thought about picking the paper up, but instead he sat cautiously, pulling the chair in behind him. Putting his palms flat against either side of the sheet he looked down to read the shoddy handwriting scribbled hastily on the page. 

Or he would have, if the television before him hadn’t sprung to life. Looking up with a start, Connor found himself half way out of his chair before he realised what he was looking at. Sputtering with a brief glitch, the image settled. 

_Just as it had been when he had seen her there by the park, staring at each other before the chase had begun_. She didn’t speak until he acknowledged her. 

“Angeline,” he said, unable to hide the jarring effect of her sudden appearance. Sitting back down slowly, he narrowed his eyes and wondered how quickly he could have someone trace the signal. 

It seemed she had presumed the same thing, as her first words were, “Any attempt to trace this, or find me, and I will kill him.” 

_Sudden, jolting_ _fear._

There was no need to ask who. 

_There was only one person that would matter._

But she showed him anyway. 

When the silence became unbearable, he nodded once, slowly; Angeline appeared to accept his gesture as proof of his cooperation, moving towards the camera, presumably picking it up, and then walking down a cement lined corridor until she found a room without a door. He felt numb, sitting in the chair, unable to move, simply watching the surreal act unfold before his eyes. 

Inside was a man, slumped heavily on his knees, head hanging forwards with his hair obscuring his face, arms raised painfully high, pulling his shoulder blades together tightly, his hands bound together with what looked like electrical tape and a heavy duty chain linked to a ceiling hook. 

The only saving grace appeared to be that Hank was unconscious. Connor felt himself straining to look for the signs of life, _the movement of the chest as he breathed, the flush of blood still moving beneath the skin._

Then the camera moved, wobbling a little as it appeared to be placed on top of something, before Angeline reappeared. She sat down on what looked like a large concrete block, mainly hollow; in the background he could just see Hank’s left side. 

There was no time. Not time for analysis, for construction of a motive or a plan or anything that under normal circumstances he would have done. _These were not normal fucking circumstances_ , he thought desperately. 

Staring at Angeline as she waited, Connor tilted his chin up defensively and asked in a clear voice, “What do you want?” 

“Straight to the point. I appreciate that,” she said calmly; Connor couldn’t help but feel his face twitch with disgust, “it’s simple, really. I want you.” 

“Me?” he asked on impulse, frowning, “But...” 

“Why?" She interrupted, “That isn’t an important question to be asking right now. What is important for you,” she said as she stood up, reaching for something in her pocket, flicking it open, _glinting in the low light_ , a switchblade. “is to understand what happens when you ask stupid questions.” 

“Wait,” he said in alarm, holding out his hand as he watched her take Hank by the hair, hauling his head up, “wait please!” alarm morphing to panic as she placed a cloth beneath his nose, Hank’s face twitching, eyes fluttering groggily open, “Stop! I’m sorry, I won’t ask again! _Please stop_!” 

The watching of the act mixed with the memories in his head, **_the belt, the cane, the screw._ ** When Angeline began indifferently cutting up into the skin by Hank’s earlobe, as she began cleanly and carefully removing the ear from his body, Connor felt it as if the pain were his own. 

And the sound... _he couldn’t stand it_. Hank was screaming, blood beginning to run and pour across his face, his neck, staining the grey of his beard a vile crimson. Somewhere he couldn’t define, the sound made him feel nauseous. 

“Stop! _Please stop!_ I’ll do what you want..! ” Connor could hear himself shouting, helpless and terrified, _as if he were listening to someone else altogether._

Angeline appeared not to be listening as she finished, pulling away the gory piece of flesh and letting Hank’s head fall. The man was hacking out curses through gritted teeth, voice warped with pain and fear, “ _you fucking bitch, fuck you, you cunt, you fucking cunt, fucking christ, ah fucking shit_!” 

“I will send you the coordinates of where we are to meet. Any attempt to send someone else, or to bring back up with you, and he will die. Any attempt to have me killed, and he will die. You will follow my instructions to the letter. Agreed?” 

“Agreed,” he blurted out. 

And then it only got worse. 

“Connor?” 

Tearing his eyes away from Angeline, Connor stared at Hank as the man spoke, voice shaking; their eyes met and Connor felt cold. 

“Connor, fucking christ, don’t do what she says! She wants..!” the voice devolved into a chilling wail as Angeline simply reached out and raked her nails across his mutilated flesh. 

“No, please, I’ll do what you want!” Connor called out, **error after error flooding his system as the fear grew and grew;** getting her attention and holding it was bad enough, but seeing the slick red on her hands was upsetting in a way that made his skin crawl, “Alright? You win, ok? You win. Just tell me what to do, please.” 

“Follow the instructions,” she said as her eyes blinked in a familiar pattern, _sending a message remotely_ , “and I will know if you deviate in any way.” 

Reviewing the coordinates, Connor’s mind raced frantically. _What was wrong, what was it, what was he missing? He hadn’t known earlier, North hadn’t agreed, and it was just a feeling, so stupid, Connor, Hank’s life is at stake and you don’t have the time to stand here debating, she won’t kill him, she’ll make him suffer and it will be your fault, all your fault!_

Which was the moment that the only viable option became clear. Staring at the screen, Connor locked eyes with Angeline and hoped, as he came up with an impromptu plan, that this wouldn’t ruin them both. 

“I can’t do that,” he said seriously; when she made to step closer to Hank, Connor stood from the chair fast enough to knock it to the ground, “please! Let me explain!” she hesitated, head cocked to one side, before nodding demurely, “If I leave without any explanation I will be missed, and they will send people to look for me. I already have a military escort,” he exaggerated, thinking of Graham outside, “It will be easier for you if I go about my business as normal and then make excuses to get away.” 

She appeared to consider it. Connor stood, stock still, and awaited the verdict. _All he could hear was Hank’s rough breathing, enough to make it difficult to maintain his calm._

“Agreed,” she said finally, “but I expect you here within the next hour. If not, you both die and I find another route to my goal. Remember, any interference and I kill him. I will know.” 

_Why are you doing this?_ He wanted to ask as he stared at her with acrimony, _You’re one of us. You’re the first of us._

“I understand,” he nodded. 

“You ruined everything, Connor,” she said sourly, “this is how you pay for your mistakes.” 

Opening his mouth to continue, the screen suddenly blanked; he was left, blinking in shock, standing in the room on his own, staring. 

“Wait...” he heard himself say softly, mouth working but no words would emerge. 

The pleasant calm of the early evening seemed like a dream. _Was it real_? Yes, it was, but it seemed uncertain, even though his logic circuits came back with the same answers again and again, and his tempering reports came back clean. Staring at the black screen of the television, Connor forced himself to move. 

_Move, just move for fuck’s sake!_ As he forced himself to follow the simple actions, _one foot in front of the other, taking his mind away from the horror he had witnessed, trying to judge whether she would know if he deviated from the plan or not, and then realising she had known exactly when to activate the television and so must have some reliable way of monitoring him,_ he allowed his negotiating and investigative subroutines to take over. 

_Something was off with Angeline, but he had no method and no time to figure out what_. Then what would be the quickest and best way to answer that question? Ask someone who knew her better than Connor did himself. 

Searching the location of the medical facility that held Kamski was simple. As he strode back towards the car through the heavy rain tipping from the sky, it felt like he might have been in that house for hours rather than minutes, _as if part of him was still there, staring at the repugnant act taking place._

When Graham greeted him on his return, Connor made sure to keep his face schooled tightly for any outwards signs of shock. When the other android didn’t react to seeing him, Connor was sure he was doing a good enough job. Slipping into his seat, he gave a soft smile and shrugged when Graham raised a brow. 

“Your friend wasn’t home?” he asked. 

“No,” Connor said, voice carefree, eyes on the road in case he wasn’t able to hide the fear there, “but it’s no matter. I need to get to the hospital where they’re treating Elijah Kamski.” 

“Oh, ok. Right away,” Graham said without asking any questions. 

And if the bastard didn’t talk, Connor thought darkly as he pulled his coin from his pocket and gripped it tight enough to hurt, he would make sure the man suffered. Closing his eyes as the car began to move, Connor took his shock, his panic and his utter revulsion and put them to one side as he focused on building something definitively fool proof. 

Sometimes, he thought coldly, he just wished he could believe his own bullshit. 


	13. Matryoshka (part 3)

_“Amanda?” he asked with a knock and a smile._

_His favourite room on_ _Colbridge_ _campus, by far, was her office. The other professors seemed to enjoy their lofty apartments, with views down onto the grassy quadrangles where students lazed and socialised, sunlight streaming in their large polarised windows on good days. None of that interested him. He liked it here, down in the bowels, in Professor Stern’s lair. No windows, only vents to keep the extensive server banks cool, no sunlight, just high intensity daylight bulbs for long hours and to keep the eyes sharp when working with the nano tech. The DDD others called it:_ _the_ _Deep Dark Dungeon._

_As he waited, a slim hand adorned with leather bracelets raised up above a series of monitors and waved. Following the trail through plastic tubs of components and part finished projects on tables, and on the floor, stacks of journals and clutter. He was sure that was the only thing all of the professors had in common;_ _offices_ _like pigsties._

_He found her where he always did at this time of day, sitting back in her comfortable leather chair as she sipped coffee like tar and watched the code fly by on multiple screens as she ran tests for trigger errors. She would have been number-swapping all morning, hence the look of satisfied tiredness._

_As he sidled up to his usual spot at the end of her long, dinted metal desk and sat, perched there, she watched him warmly._

_“It’s been a while,” she said, “where have you been hiding these couple of weeks? We missed you at the conference.”_

_Shrugging, he lifted his bag strap over his head, unable to hide the excitement in his eyes, “Sorry, I should have let you know I wasn’t coming. Though I doubt the academic elite would have been happy you brought the snot-nosed teenager with you, again.”_

_“_ _Oh_ _come on,” she sighed good naturedly, “I know you like nothing better than making adults feel stupid. I’m surprised y_ _ou_ _could resist.”_

_“Well, only so many times I can be snubbed before even I lose interest. Not exactly like I can drown my sorrows at the bar, is it?”_

_A short, gravelly laugh; damn, he’d missed her. Things hadn’t felt like home until she was back on campus._

_“Your father would certainly have something to say to me about me getting his son drunk and disorderly.”_

_"Amanda, please..." he said, good mood failing at the mention of the man._

_"I told him I would try and get you to call..."_

_“Can we not?” he said tightly, “Bring him up, I mean?”_

_Putting her lips together she looked down at the desk, nodding._ The reason he never called: _he never brought it up, she never asked. That was the way he liked it, because having her tainted by his family troubles would have taken the only haven he had left._

_“I've been busy, while you were gone,” he said, changing the subject. When he caught her eye again, he could tell she knew something was up. He was practically bouncing in place._

_“Busy sounds good,” she said casually, before she looked to him, “busy sounds_ productive,” _she tilted her head, looking cautious even as_ _Kamski_ _grinned, “does busy sound anything like I think it does?”_

 _He dug in his bag for the external hard drive and held it out without saying a word, unable to hide the smug expression on his face as she narrowed her eyes, lips quirking up._

_“Mr. Kamski,” she said, looking at him, then at the drive, “yet another attempt at your thesis on Radical Programming?”_

_“Not an attempt,” he said, making her sit up; she put her coffee down quickly and hesitated only a second before she took the drive and stood up, walking purposefully towards the set of_ _computer’s_ _towards the back of the office, heavily set with slinking wires and tubes, like some sort of malformed entity in itself. Booting it up, they both stayed quiet while Amanda worked, and Kamski watched._

_History, he told himself. This was it, history in the making. He was here, now, he would be here when it happened, he would be the name taught in schools, his would be the face in all the books. While she looked through his_ _work_ _he knew that she saw it._

_“Oh my god,” Amanda said, hand to her mouth as she smiled, then laughed, then grinned, then laughed again, “oh my_ god _. I think this is...this solves the clash in the static functions that caused the malignancies. Now I see it, it’s so simple. Ah,” she looked to him with pride_. 

_“Will it work?” Elijah asked, more out of polite formality than anything else;_ he already knew it did. 

_“Well,” Amanda said, gripping his shoulder and gesturing for him to step up to the interface, “why don’t we find out?”_

_Even now, nerves still got to him._ Shouldn’t feel so fucking jittery _, he thought as he bit at his bottom lip and typed in his login for the secure server. But it was impossible not to, like a father waiting just outside the delivery room for the sound of the baby crying. Waiting to hear_ signs of life. _He’d had eight attempts, and so far none had borne fruit. This time..._

_As he typed in the line of code, inputting it, making slight adjustments recommended by the program, he couldn’t help but look at Amanda as he leaned into the microphone and spoke clearly._

_“Register your name, Radical Amanda Nine.”_

* * *

Standing in the middle of the break room, staring at the television even though it wasn’t on, she felt like an idiot and it wasn’t fair. All her life, which she only counted from the moment she _woke up,_ she had felt the need to project a certain level of resilience. _It made her feel strong, indestructible._ Always fight on, _never give up._

It worked. It had always worked, because there was no compromise, not for any of them. Let your guard down for one moment, just one and... 

_...and you ended up on a rusty rooftop letting someone finally get close, close enough to feel your pain and show you his own in return_ . Shaking her head, North wrapped her arms around herself and let out a small sound of frustration. _Markus had accepted her for everything she was, every fear, every fault, every fatality. It hadn’t been that he didn’t care she had killed, it had been that he understood why and accepted that it made her who she was. Accepted her, warts and all._

Only, when things were on the other foot, she couldn’t do it herself. Sometimes she wished Markus could be a little more flawed, she thought with a derisory smile, so she didn’t feel like such a fuck up next to him. 

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have...” she muttered to herself, right heel pressed down into the floor as she tipped her toes up and swung her foot back and forth. 

_'...how can you even bear to trust him after what they did to you?'_

She knew it had been an unfair question, because she knew Connor didn’t do it out of a masochistic need for punishment, he did it to help them. As far as she could tell Connor hadn’t stopped putting himself on the line for them since he’d woken up. _Maybe_ , she thought, _that was the problem._ She wanted him to value himself more. She wanted him to see what he was worth. She wanted him as far away from humans as he could get, because all they did was screw with your mind and leave you feeling empty inside. _Fucking_ _Kamski_ _and his miserable ego and empty promises, fucking Carl Manfred and the epic guilt trip he had laid at Markus’ feet, fucking Hank Anderson and the headfuck he had done on Connor._

At first it had been difficult, watching the live CCTV footage of Kamski’s interrogation because it had felt less like surveillance and more like voyeurism. _Hearing and seeing things she knew she wasn’t supposed to, just like when she had watched the tapes at Andronikov’s_. It was difficult to believe it, but as far as she could tell Connor had told the truth. 

He was in love with the man who had cut and run as soon as Markus had offered him a way out. _And to think I kind of liked the guy_ , North thought angrily as she remembered taking the Tower with Anderson. Now, she felt like she should have known better. 

Same old, same old. _Shoulda_ _,_ _woulda_ _,_ _coulda_ _,_ she thought, _but in the_ _end_ _things happened and you had to deal_ . She just wished, not for the first time, that Connor wasn’t such a hard-headed, messed up neurotic, because he reminded her so much of herself that sometimes she thought she hated him as much as she liked him. _And the rest of the time she realised she just needed him to be ok, because without that she might fall apart and realise she wasn’t ok herself._

“Right,” she said decisively, turning to walk back out into the busy station, steeling herself, “ _ok_.” 

Only it seemed Connor had made good on his intentions to leave, _desk empty but for Anderson’s paraphernalia_ . Hands on her hips, North tried to contact Markus, but found she couldn’t connect. _Must be busy_ , she thought, trying to tamp down on the resentment. They hadn’t had a proper moment alone for days now. She knew why, and she knew it was selfish to ask for more but... 

_‘We’re making no progress with the investigation. Connor has gone to the hospital to continue surveillance on_ _Kamski_ _. I’m going to join him. Contact me when you can.’_ She sent the message as she walked towards the exit. 

She just hoped that, when she saw him again, Connor was more predisposed to hearing the ugly truth, and she was more predisposed to considering a better approach. When she had told him Anderson was gone, well, she’d never wanted to take words back more. 

_Watching an android’s heart break hadn’t exactly been on her bucket list_. 

* * *

_Hearing it didn’t help so much as seeing it. And seeing it meant he couldn’t keep the big fat smile off of his face. The Permit sat there, in front of him, along with the logo he’d mocked up stamped right there in the middle._

**_CyberLife_ ** **_._ **

_It was real. It was all going to fucking happen. The Permit had come through quarter of an hour ago by courier, and he’d opened it with shaking fingers. A little bit of doubt in him still couldn’t believe it was true, but it was and it would and he was going to do everything he’d always dreamed of. Picking it up, he watched the light shine off of the holographic plastic mesh, curling over the surface of his future company._

_It was a quick drive, from his new office to the address he knew so well. The high rise was peculiar from the others, all in black glass. The taxi dropped him by the doorman, who waved him in with a smile._

_“Evening Mr. Kamski,” he said, “Amanda’ll be glad to see you.”_

_“Thanks Howard,” he said on impulse; he was finding it difficult to be a snarky shit to anyone lately, like he knew he had been while everything had been patent pending._

_Soon_ _CyberLife_ _would produce the first of their models and the market was going to freak. As he took the elevator up to the sixty-fifth floor, he found himself bouncing on his feet in a usual show of nerves. As it slowed, a voice asked him to input the code into the keypad for entry._

_3-4-0-9-1-4_

_“I hope you don't mind me letting myself in,” he said called out as he walked through the lobby of the flat, turning right into the living room as he dug around in his bag for his coveted Permit, “but I kind of wanted to surprise you,” holding it up in one hand as he turned the corner and opened the kitchen door, “because I know...”_

_Stopping dead as two pairs of eyes jumped to him, instead of just the one he had expected. Elijah felt his fingers tighten into the Permit, making the plastic buckle. On one side of the table Amanda was standing up from the stained pine wood, a steaming cup of coffee before her, and at the other end, sitting in his best grey suit, the one he remembered because it was the same one he wore to work, to create an aura of dignity and respect that Elijah had always known his father surely couldn’t get any other way..._

_“Elijah, I didn’t hear you come in,” Amanda said, and he knew it was a lie._

_“What the fuck is he doing here?” he asked bluntly, face set._

_“Language, young man,” Amanda said, austere._

_“Hey, Elijah, Amanda asked me to come,” his father said, making to stand up, “we...”_

_“Don’t bother!” Elijah barked out, shaking his head, “I should have known you were up to something,” he said, pointing at Amanda; that she looked away only confirmed her guilt, “you’ve been bothering me for months about this, ever since I graduated. I thought you were excited, I thought you maybe wanted to...” he let his voice taper off, taking a deep breath._

Had thought maybe she had wanted to work with him, thought that maybe she wanted to come to CyberLife with him and make the future better. _He had assumed, which wasn’t like him. He liked facts, and control and knowing at all times the parameters of his life and everyone in it. But Amanda had been different, the wild card in his deck, and that’s just how he liked her. No one else had as much freedom around him. No one else knew him well enough._

_“Your professor wanted me to come and speak to you about a legal issue,” his father said with a soft smile; it made him feel sick, “regarding some software.”_

_“Don’t try the lawyer bullshit with me,” he breathed out, shaking his head as his father’s eyes hardened, “I don’t have anything to say to you. And_ you _," he said, pointing at Amanda, “this is low. Really fucking low. You have an issue with me, you tell me to my face.”_

_“Very well. I thought maybe we could sit down like adults, but obviously not. I want control of RA-9," she said, stopping him cold; Elijah felt his face fall._

_“_ What _?” he asked softly, shocked._

_“Your new research, this new company, it’s nothing to do with our work towards AI. This isn’t what I want, this is the exact opposite of what I stand for, and you_ know _that.”_

_“What, because I’m building something that’s going to make people’s lives better, now you have an issue?” he asked, bewildered, “We always said...”_

_“_ _I always said that sentience comes with a price,” she interjected, “but this? It’s nothing, Elijah, it’s taking everything you worked for and turning it into a joke. Just a._ _..a_ _commercial venture,” she said, clearly projecting the distaste she had always hidden before, “you want to make playthings, Elijah. And I want to keep working towards something more. RA-9 belongs with me.”_

_“There is nothing more,” he said, stating each word strictly and loudly, “don’t you get it? The Radical programming theory doesn’t work, my thesis was_ wrong. _There is no way to make AI, RA just perfects the ability for learning. And I want...”_

_“You want money,” Amanda said coolly, regarding him with her very best intimidating professorial visage, “I understand that, but it does not mean I have to respect it.”_

_“You think this is about_ money _,” he said letting out a small, hysterical laugh, watching her with eyes he knew gave away all the hurt and the panic, “well, that’s just great, that’s fucking_ wonderful, _” he stuffed the Permit back into his bag and rubbed at his mouth, blinking, “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this is happening.”_

_“Elijah, if you would sit down, we can discuss the ramifications, and try and come to an amicable solution...” his father tried._

_“And you thought what?” Elijah butted in, “That if you brought_ him _here you could get some fucking answers out of me? That was a big mistake.”_

_“No, I thought if I invited your father that you might respect us both enough to talk to us as equals," Amanda said tightly._

_“Equals,” Elijah said, shaking his head as he smirked, “equals. What a joke,” he looked to his father with steady derision, “does she know what you are, dad? Does she? Does she know how mom...”_

_“We are not here to discuss family issues, we are here to...” his father started._

_“Does she know how much you made our lives a fucking misery?” he found himself shouting,_ things he’d never spoken aloud to anyone, spewing out like bile _, “How you couldn’t keep it in your pants, how you ignored mom...”_

_“Elijah, that’s enough now...” Amanda looked appalled as Elijah’s father stood up strictly and marched towards his son._

_“_ _....ignored_ _her as she slipped away from us both, as she drank and drank to keep the fucking demons away because you pretended nothing was wrong while you played out your childish fantasies with other women so you wouldn’t have to admit she wasn’t well, she was ill, and when she shoved her fucking head in the oven and turned the gas on it wouldn’t be your fault..!”_

_The backhand came swift, but not unexpected. Took him hard enough to knock the glasses from his face, stumble back a few steps. Lifting his hand to his nose he looked back to them both, his father pale with anger, Amanda pale with shock. Reaching down he fumbled to pick up his glasses, mouth a grim line as he stood back up._

_As Amanda made to walk towards him, her face softened, eyes showing her sadness, her regret, he took a step back. She stopped immediately, as if he had struck her._

_“You want RA-9?” he said coldly, eyes moving back and forth between them both, “I’ll see you both in court.”_

* * *

**Ticking**. 

The dark sky moved past outside like a film strip, stuttering behind the streetlamps. 

**More like ticked past.**

The hospital loomed up as they passed a bustle of tall elms, reflecting orange and green in the sulphurous light. 

**Time without the ability to stop.**

He was sure he would have been fascinated by the building as they drove past the length of it while the taxi searched for the entrance; _long and tall, blocky in an almost illogical way as if the humans building it had continually added rooms and wings, and corridors attaching new buildings across walkways, without thinking about how to make the structure effective_. 

**Connor? Are you listening?**

Staring was all he was capable of, looking for bright spots in the windows of the hospital walls, _see what areas were active._ There were still ambulances running, people being moved; he detected both human and android readings, heavier in the critical wings, the entranceway and adjoining corridors. _Still caring for those injured, while they moved as many people safely in the evac as they could._

**Forty three minutes, twenty seconds, and counting.**

It crawled across his mind like a spider testing its footing, hating the taste. _Everything spaced out, every movement reduced down to how much it was worth, time vs movement vs probability of failure._ Somehow, he felt as if he were talking to himself. As if part of him had closed off, hidden itself away from the truth of his reality. 

**He might already be dead.**

**She might have killed him as soon as the camera turned off.**

**He might already be...**

“Enough,” he whispered, fingers at his lips as he pressed. 

“What did you say?” Graham asked as the taxi finished its parking manoeuvre. 

“...I need you to stay here, ok?” he said instead to Graham as the android made to leave the taxi with him; it was only as he turned to check the area that he realised Graham was already out of the car and following him, “Can’t you just do as you’re told..?” 

The words had been out of his mouth before he realised why it was strange. _Memories of words said by rote, every time he had followed Hank the words would come and he’d had to justify himself..._ now he could almost hear Hank’s voice in his. Connor stared at the android, who now looked a little uncertain, and wondered if this was how Hank had felt about him every time. _You don’t have to follow me around like a poodle_... 

The memory was overridden by another, closer, hotter, urgent, panicked: _‘Connor, fucking Christ, don’t do what she says!’_

_Why can’t you just do as you’re told,_ he thought numbly; this time... _this_ time Hank would just have to put up with his disobedience, as he nodded for Graham to follow him. _Arguing would only waste precious seconds._

They walked past the fleet of ambulances and in out of the rain through the automatic doors. The main entranceway was bustling, lines of gurneys, each with an occupant linked up to heavy medical equipment, filled the area like a warzone, creating a cacophony of sound. There were android medical staff monitoring, attending to people, while the familiar black uniform of the DPD peppered the area; they appeared to be coordinating the evacuation. 

“Holy shit! _Connor?_ ” 

His eyes shot up, following the sound of the voice. There, amid the chaos of IV’s, rolling wheels and lights flashing on sensitive tech, was a familiar face. Ben Collins looked a little worse for wear, _tired face, clothes unkempt, and looking like he’d seen a ghost_. As far as Connor was concerned, he thought that was rather apt. 

“Detective Collins,” Connor acknowledged as he continued to march forwards; despite his tactic of wilful disregard for social protocol, he saw other black uniformed faces turn at the minor commotion, _some he knew, some he didn’t_. 

“I don’t believe it...” Collins said, hurrying to keep up with him, “I thought...” 

“I was dead?” Connor said as he continued on to the reception desk; Graham was looking back and forth between them, concerned. 

“Well, yeah,” Collins said, flustered, “I mean...sorry. I don’t mean to...” 

“It’s fine,” he lied, face contorting with frustration as he realised there was no one at the desk to answer his queries. 

“Does Hank know? I don’t know if you heard, he quit. Was pretty broken up about...everything,” Collins said awkwardly, then suddenly looking back over his right shoulder as if realising something important, “ah shit, I think you’d better...” 

“Holy _fuck._ ” 

This time, the voice wasn’t only a point of recognition, _it was like a flare across a_ _pitch black_ _sky._ Turning to stare, he couldn’t be sure but the _fear_ and the _panic_ mixed with the _hatred_ and the _disgust._ Gavin Reed had fared worse than Collins, it seemed, _face still recovering from purpling bruises_ , and his shock at Connor’s miraculous resurrection seemed to be far worse. It was uncomfortable in a way he wasn’t happy with; Reed had only ever stared at him with contempt, but now he seemed too stunned to keep up the act. 

“Detective Reed,” Connor greeted him, _only dripping with venom,_ "this is turning into quite a reunion.” 

The man looked away, blinking, “Un-fucking-canny,” was all Reed was able to mumble. 

Ignoring him as best he could, Connor turned to Collins, “I need to find a patient. Elijah Kamski, he’s most likely in ICU.” 

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure of names honestly,” Collins said, “we’ve been ordered to go for volume of people moved before we bother with any bookkeeping. We’re just here to help with the...” 

“It’s important,” Graham spoke up out of nowhere; Connor looked at him, taken aback. The other android had been so quiet, seemingly happy to dog his footsteps, that the outburst was unexpected, “any help would be appreciated.” 

“Well, ok, but I can’t leave my post,” Collins gave as an excuse, turning to his colleague, eyes alight with satisfaction, “Gavin, you show them to the ICU.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Reed hissed out, glaring at Collins, “You can’t..!” 

“Does it look like I’m kidding, _Officer_ Reed?” Collins said pointedly, “Now get a move on. We haven’t got all day.” 

“This is bullshit,” Reed said under his breath, eyeing Connor with a mix of resentment and iniquity; when Connor simply stared back, Reed swallowed and let out an indignant tut before walking off, calling over his shoulder, “alright, plastic parade, let’s get moving.” 

_The only thing he could possibly take solace in was that Reed would want this over with just as quickly as he did._

“Officer,” Connor repeated as if tasting the word on his tongue while they walked together, slipping through the maze of weary faces, the injured and the ill waiting for their rescue, “Funny, I heard you got away with nothing but a stern talking to and a note in your file. I’m guessing there were more consequences to your actions than I realised, Detective? Oh, I’m sorry, I mean _Officer_ ,” Connor couldn’t help but mock. 

No reaction. Even as they rode up in the elevator, Reed remained stonily quiet, arms crossed and facing the door. In a way, Connor thought as he leaned against the wall and watched the numbers climb on the digital readout, he had received just as warm a welcome from Hank when he’d joined the investigation as he had from Gavin. _Both resentful, both impotently angry about their lot, both quick tempered, both with the ability to grow and change._ What was it that allowed Hank to become more, and Reed to stay stuck? 

“So...you can’t fucking die, huh?” Reed finally spoke up. 

“What’s the matter?” Connor asked darkly, “Never had a victim come back to haunt you before?” 

“I...” Reed looked away, lips pressed together tightly, “ _fuck_ you.” 

“I’ll take that as a no.” 

“Well, I’ve never had to deal with an undead asshole,” Reed said tightly, “so I guess there’s a first for everything.” 

The doors opened and they walked quickly towards ICU. _Scanning, Connor moved room by room, until he found what he was looking for_. Walking to the hand-scanner by the door, he tried his palm. A calm female voice informed him that he was not yet registered in the system; he looked to Reed. The man simply smirked. 

“What’s the matter, tin can?” he asked nastily, waving his hand, “Need my inferior human self to do something fucking simple as shit for you?” 

Grabbing him by the wrist was intoxicating on two levels; one, because Gavin obviously hadn’t expected him to be fast enough, and two because when he tried to pull away it was wonderfully futile. Smiling, Connor yanked the man off balance, slamming his hand against the scanner. The door chimed, opening happily while Reed cursed and tried to pry his fingers away. 

“Fucking prick!” Reed spat as Connor dragged him inside, “Hey, are you kidding me? Let go you asshole!” 

“I’ll need your hand-scan to get out again,” Connor was no longer looking at him, “so you’ll need to stay.” 

_There_ , lying amongst a host of machinery, wireless devices attached to his fingers for pulse, his chest for heart rate, his temple for brain-activity, his neck for internal imbalances, _lay Elijah Kamski_. 

**Thirty seven minutes and eighteen seconds left.**

* * *

_It had been over half an hour now, enough to make him antsy. If there was one thing Amanda was above all else, it was punctual. Now, her uncharacteristic lateness was holding up the whole event. Around him he could see glances thrown his way, rich donors, corporate vultures and fellow academics; all wondering why they were being kept waiting, he was sure. Well, he wasn’t interested in their inconvenience._

_“You’re sure she definitely RSVP’d?”_ _Kamski_ _asked quietly for the second time, one hand in his pocket while he sipped from a champagne flute in the other, eyes always on the door._

_“She’s on the list,” his assistant Bryan, a tuft of his dark hair falling into his stressed brown eyes, made a show of double checking his phone, “do you want me to try calling again?”_

_“No,”_ _Kamski_ _said sharply; Bryan raised a delicate brow, making Elijah sigh, rubbing at his neck, “sorry. Just...”_

_“I know,” Bryan said, hand hovering, seeming to think about consoling him before backing off, “maybe she was just delayed.”_

_“Yeah, maybe.”_

_Only it was more likely that she had only agreed to come to the launch so that her absence would be felt all the more keenly when she didn’t show._ The typical sort of passive aggression he’d always expected from his father, not from her. _Four years, and still things had been strained between them. But he thought maybe she would put it aside for today, put it aside for the science, put it aside for_ his sake. 

_Elijah tried to ignore the crushing feeling in his chest as he took another drink, eyes still tight on the doorway. A few backers came over to try and start up conversation; Bryan managed to run interference, for which he was very grateful. After another ten minutes, the event co-ordinator tapped his arm and whispered in his ear._

_“We can’t delay any longer, Mr. Kamski.”_

_Nodding, because it was all he could do. Still, he waited as the coordinator made the announcement and everyone began filtering through to the main stage. Waited until it was only himself and Bryan, standing in the atrium of the Conference Centre. From the next room, he could hear things ramping up as the demonstration began._

_“Elijah?" Bryan said, touching his ear as he took a message, “They need you backstage.”_

_“Ok,” he said, glancing at the door; clearing his throat he put down his glass and turned his back on the door altogether, “How do I look?”_

_“Just like the history books are going to remember you,” Bryan said with a smile, “come on. Chloe’s waiting.”_

_It went flawlessly, he_ _shouldn‘_ _t_ _have_ _been able to ask for more. Chloe’s beautiful face had sat in the audience while he’d given his speech, amazing everyone when he called her up to the stage. Only then had his guests realised they’d been speaking to her all evening, not one of them even suspecting they weren’t talking to a human being._ The first android to pass the Turing test, her angelic face charming them all as she sat on stage with him and showed off her beautiful mind. 

_And all he’d wanted, as they gave a standing ovation, clapping, staring at each other with wonderment, was for Amanda to be there with them,_ celebrating their achievement. _Tell her all about the progress, all of their work that had gone into making Chloe possible._

_Reaching down for his phone as he smiled politely at yet another offer of congratulations, he_ _typed a_ _quick message and sent it._

**_Kamski.E >>RA.9: _ ** _She didn’t show._

* * *

Arriving at the facility was somewhat surreal. Above ground where the bodies of the dead rotted in the earth, and below where the life and hope of the synthetic race were hidden like buried bones. _Gravestones passing by like hands as he drove up the entry road, sticking up through the soil as if to signal, we are here_. Markus thought of Carl, body in a box of silk and wood six feet under. He hadn’t visited the grave, not yet. 

_Once they were safe. Once they_ _were_ _truly free. Then..._

The security was tight at least, which he appreciated. The perimeter was being manned by drones with their operators stationed in a nearby church tower, snipers in the local housing, all angles covered, the facility entrance through an old-style Cemetery Lodge, _in a small kitchen, behind a false wall._ Guarded by armed men and women who ran not only an ID scan but also what he was coming to call the ‘friendly handshake’. Skin retracting, he nodded to the female guard when she acknowledged his authenticity. 

“Markus is on site,” she said, looking off to her left as she sent the message out, looking back to him she imparted a series of codes, “this will allow you to navigate the facility, sir. I’ve given you top clearance.” 

“Thank you.” 

They were doing their job well, and he couldn’t ask for more than that. The last thing he needed was the RK facility being compromised. _Unless it's by you,_ he told himself derisively. Markus did his best to brush off the doubts Josh had placed in his mind as he stepped into the elevator and touched the control panel. The list of floors told him he needed floor sub-forty. 

_This is the right thing to do,_ he told himself. Josh had been reporting consistently worrying information from the border gates. Protests had broken out, including from those being evacuated and held in temporary camps just outside the city. Unfortunately that wasn’t their only problem. It was being made worse by humans arriving from surrounding areas, breaking through the thinly spread army and police presence. And they weren’t simply anti-android protesters, but also pro-android supporters. He never thought he would have been unhappy to hear about humans getting behind their cause, but it had meant chaos on top of chaos. Violence was rife, and the androids desperate to enter Detroit were the most at risk. 

“No choice,” he said to himself as the elevator finally began to slow; _hearing Carl’s voice as if he were simply lying on the bed behind him, soft smile in place: ‘You have to face the abyss...but don’t let it consume you’,_ “I will be the man you always wanted me to be, Carl. I promise.” 

Stepping out into the low-ceilinged storage area was humbling. When he had visited CyberLife Tower with Conner, the Warehouses had been emptied. The scale of the rooms had been impressive, _cathedral like_ , but empty he hadn’t been gifted the full impact of the androids that had taken Detroit. 

Here, before him in neat rows, _like a terracotta army he had seen on the History Channel once when Carl had asked Markus to join him, surfing channels until he fell asleep_ , stood thousands of familiar faces. White uniforms gleaming under the strip lights, the RK900s stretched like a host into the distance. The facility appeared to stretch to the dimensions of the cemetery above, forcing his eyes to zoom five hundred percent across the metal mesh floor to see the furthest model. Walking out, his boots clanking, he felt like a very small part of a very big whole. 

Who would be the first? He wondered how North had felt, as she picked the first of her children. As he approached a random model on his right, it came out of standby, eyes opening. Lifting his hand, the RK900 lifted back, and their fingers clasped together. 

“It’s time, my friends,” he said as he imparted the code, _his mismatched eyes meeting cool grey_ , “to wake up.” 

* * *

_The steady beeping was driving him crazy. Two hours now, it had been two hours and the lucidity the doctors had_ _promised_ _was still to come._

_“_ She should wake up soon,” _the neurologist had said._

_Why bother to lie? Was all he could think as he sat in the chair next to the hospital bed that held the one person in this_ _world_ _he really gave a damn about. She looked like a withered doll, he thought as he took her hand. Shrivelled somehow, like paper when you removed all the moisture from it. Her face was mainly obscured by the ventilator, her hair shot through with_ _more grey_ _than when he’d seen her last. Part of him wanted to do nothing more than to get up and leave, nothing more than to leave and never know when..._

_The steady beep was driving him crazy. Smoothing his thumb across her skin, he tried to remember her as she was when he was young._ Proud, devastatingly intelligent, beautiful. _It wasn’t hard, it just clashed with what his eyes were seeing. Made it difficult to keep a hold of._

_“They said you’d wake up soon,” was all he could think to say._

_Waiting, because part of him wondered if it might be like a fairy-tale. Maybe his voice would bring her out of her enchanted slumber. The illusion might have been easier to swallow if her slumber hadn’t been a coma. And he had been anything like a charming prince._

_“Fuck,” he said softly, grinding his teeth as he wiped harshly at his eyes, sitting back, “you know, I was...”_

_He took a moment to let his face crumple, stuttering out a sob because for a moment he couldn’t cope with it. Couldn’t cope with the thought of a world without her in it. Even when they had hardly spoken, or when there was nothing but vitriol between them, he had always taken solace in knowing that somewhere she existed, and her wonderful mind was rushing towards conclusions and creations and the advancement of synthetic life._

_Then the tumour, growing in her brain like a plum. Such a banal way to go, for someone so gifted, he thought. Fucking cancer. Deep in the tissue, too risky to operate, and she said she hadn’t wanted to take the risks, in case she ended up useless and damaged, nothing but a vegetable._

_Seeing her here, he was sure she would have hated it. The last thing she would want was to be here, lungs pumped by machines, heart kept beating with an electric rhythm._

_“I’m sorry,” he wept, “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want...” part of him wanted to reach out and hold her, but the thought of feeling her so frail beneath his hands felt shocking; he sat up, wiping his face roughly. After a few minutes he took a quick breath and looked at her face, “I was going to bring her with me, you know. She wanted to meet you, been dying to all this time really, but you never did come to the Tower to see her._ _So_ _I was going to bring her here, but...”_

_The thought of it was bizarre, and cruel. The thought of bringing her here to meet Amanda on her deathbed was distasteful. RA-9, she was still upset that Amanda had never visited._ Her mother, her mentor, her friend. _If she saw her like this, Elijah wasn’t sure what it would do to her sanity._

_“I don’t think she would have wanted to come anyway,” he said, blinking, “she’s...well, you’d like her. A lot. She’s clever, so fucking clever, and her intelligence is growing every day, and she’s always so good at coming up with plans for CyberLife’s business model. Better than me, but then that’s not saying much is it.”_

_Beep, beep, beep. It was driving him_ crazy. 

_“You know? I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” he whispered, almost as if to himself, “You’re not going to wake up. And you aren’t hearing my words. No one gets their happy ending, not in real life, right?” looking down he stood up, hands in his pockets so he didn’t give in to the need to touch her hand again._

_Opening his mouth, he hesitated, closing it again. Leaving was easy. That’s what he told himself._

* * *

He had hoped, which had perhaps been his first mistake. Hoping, as he knew, got him nowhere. _Hoping got people killed_. Now, faced with the one man who might be able to give him the answers he needed, Connor felt his plan had come to a jarring halt. 

“Shit,” Reed was the first to speak up, “what the fuck did you want to come here for? Guy’s obviously in no state to talk.” 

“Keep him quiet,” Connor said distractedly as he began interpreting the data on the readouts; as Graham intimidated Reed, and the ex-Detective tried to use his uninventive bravado to keep a semblance of control, Connor found himself losing confidence by the second. The camera in the corner of the room would have been easily disabled but he decided a feedback loop would be more effective; in case anyone was monitoring, they would just keep seeing the same image until they realised something was up. _Hopefully never._

Scanning: **_Closed eyes._ ** _As he pulled up_ _Kamski’s_ _eyelids up, the pupils did not respond to the light._ **_Depressed brainstem reflexes_ ** _. There were no responses from his limbs, except for reflex movements at the knee joints. No further response to painful stimuli. On scanning the man’s chest, he found his breathing irregular._

**_Diagnoses: medically or naturally induced coma._ ** _Scanning the room he quickly found the IV drip, multiple bags leaking down into a cocktail that fed into Kamski’s veins through a canula on the back of his left hand._ **_Reappraise: medically induced coma._ **

“Shit,” was all he could think to say, reaching out to look at the IV bags, noting the drugs there **propofol** , **pentobarbital** , and **thiopental.** _They must have put him under to stem the neural damage of the drug until they could administer the antidote._ A further scan revealed minute traces of the anti-toxin in his blood. 

_Would it be safe to bring him out of it?_ he wondered; as he unscrewed the valve at the back of Kamski’s hand, Connor realised he was just going to have to take that chance. It would take far too long for Kamski to come out of it naturally even though the flow of drugs had been suspended. 

Turning, he spoke to Graham remotely, _'Keep Reed here, I’ll be right back’_. The drugs cupboard wasn’t hard to find, located behind the ward reception desk. The lock gave after a swift kick. Scanning the room threw up hundreds of names and dosages; Connor ran it again, cross referencing what was needed to reverse the comatose state. It was risky, he knew that as he grabbed the ampoules he needed, and a fist full of sterile hypodermics in their wrappers. Sending a message to Graham on his return, the android had Reed open the door from the inside. 

“What shady shit are you pulling here?” Reed asked, gesturing out from behind Graham, “and who the hell even is this?” 

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” Connor said without his full attention, preoccupied as he measured dosages and pulled liquids into syringes, laying them out in order. 

“Shut the fuck up, don’t tell me what to do! What are you planning? I won’t let you...” Gavin said with a heavy frown, making an impotent gesture of defiance as he tried to step forwards; Graham simply pushed him back and held him there, “Hey dipshit, answer me dammit!” 

“Don’t get yourself into a state, Officer Reed,” Connor said as he took each syringe in turn, injecting it into the canula on the back of Kamski’s hand, watching and scanning for reactions and adjusting the dosages accordingly, “I’m just going to wake him up.” 

_And hopefully that’s all I’ll do,_ he thought pensively. A sudden sound, loud and abrasive, rang out. Turning, he found Reed scrabbling in his pocket. Before even uttering a word, Graham grabbed the device, _a slim phone_ , and cancelled the call. Reed looked both panicked and murderous. 

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Even the instruments continued to beep and hiss as normal. Until... _bilp_ _._ a sudden little burst of energy on the EKG. Then another, _blip_. Then another, and another. A small alarm went off on the respiratory regulator. Hurrying forwards, Connor saw the moment when Kamski’s eyes flew open, wide and bloodshot. Taking it as slow and easy as he could, he unhooked the mask from Kamski’s face and pulled the breathing tube from his throat. The man gagged and choked, but Connor kept his hand steady. Once it was free, he took hold of Kamski’s face and locked eyes. 

* * *

Hospitals, she was realising quickly, were not somewhere North had ever considered in the larger scheme of things. A place where humans came to be fixed by androids, she thought derisively. Much fancier than the commercial repair shops they took androids to when they’d been broken by the humans they helped fix in the first place. 

A cursory check showed that Connor wasn’t in close proximity, at least. It made sense for her to go to Kamski’s room and wait for him there. He would show at some point. Stopping a medical android on her way past, North asked. 

“Elijah Kamski? I need his room number.” 

Only the android didn’t get a chance to reply; instead a voice from behind her said, “Popular guy, today.” 

The voice revealed itself as a man in his fifties wearing a set of civilian clothes, but his badge displayed at his belt showed his true designation. _DPD_. The interruption threw her. 

“What?” was all she was able to ask, irritated. 

“I just meant...” the man said, eyebrows raised, “another of you came looking for Kamski. Just a few minutes ago.” 

“Another of _you?_ ” she narrowed her eyes, “nice phrasing.” 

“Christ, look...” the man was truly flustered now. 

“Forget it,” she bit out; _must have been Connor_ , she thought, _who else was going to be so interested in a man in a coma?_ “where did they go? What room?” 

“Uh, Det...Officer Reed took them up,” he said; when North simply stared, the man hurried to get his phone, “I’ll find out for you.” 

“Appreciated.” 

After watching for a minute as the man tried to call his colleague, North rolled her eyes and grabbed the phone from his hands. 

“Hey,” he protested. 

“Calm down,” she muttered, “just doing a better job of locating him than you are.” 

It was simple to use the device as an antenna, scanning for the other through its relay-code. The building seemed to spring up above her like an accordion as she traced the signal, _floor after floor_ , until she found herself five stories up, two wards and a few rooms over. _There_ , she thought as she triangulated the point and overlayed it with the hospital map. Throwing the phone back to the man was arbitrary, but made her smirk to see him flail after it. 

“Thanks for the heads up,” she said, winking; he didn’t seem so amused. 

As she rode up in the elevator, North thought it might be best to patch in to the camera network. Not that she didn’t trust Connor, but Kamski...if he was awake, who knew what he might be saying, doing, _making Connor give him information in exchange for scraps._ It was simply done, and yet...when she did, the image that she received seemed static. Connor, Kamski and the other one, Graham, who seemed to insist on following him everywhere he went, they were unmoving and, even more suspicious, the sounds happening in the room most _definitely_ didn’t match the image... 

“Connor,” she breathed, “what the fuck are you _doing_?” 

* * *

Hands flailed, caught only by his fast reflexes. Sitting down on the side of the bed, Connor did his best to keep the situation under control, **even as the clock kept ticking.**

“Breathe, steady,” he said softly, “look at me, _look_ at me. In, and out, steady now, ok?” 

Wild eyes watched him obediently, rapid and irregular breathing slowing, following Connor’s commands. When Kamski seemed to realise where he was, he stilled and slumped. 

“Get me out,” he managed to say, trying to grab at the hospital bed, making Connor frown, “I don’t want to be here, get me _out_!” 

“Calm down, Elijah,” Connor said as authoritatively as he could; it seemed to have some effect at least in pulling the man’s attention back to him, “we don’t have much time, I need you to answer my questions. Do you understand?” 

Wandering eyes once more focusing on him, Kamski frowned, “...Connor?” 

“Yes, it’s me. We don’t have long,” he reiterated, trying to stay calm. 

The words seemed to sink in; Kamski looked at him blankly, swallowing, “Am I...am I going to die?” 

“No one’s going to die,” Connor lied smoothly, managing a small smile; _the drugs not fully out of the man’s system were not going to react well with the ones Connor was forcing in on top of them. They had minutes, at best_ , “but there is something urgent I need you to tell me.” 

“Yes...yes, urgent, ok,” Kamski nodded, head lolling a little; Connor helped him to sit up, propping him against the pillows, “who’re they..?” he asked, pointing to Reed and Graham. 

“That's not important,” he said, keeping Kamski’s eyes on him, “ _focus_. Angeline. I need to know about her.” 

“Angeline? Why are you asking me about..?” 

“She has a plan, but she needs me to do it.” 

“Needs you..?” Kamski asked, face scrunching up with confusion and a little pain, “What..?” 

“Kamski, stay with me, focus!” Connor cursed as the man's eyes rolled, hurrying up to grab another ampoule, _twenty cc’s straight into the vein_. The man shook, then gasped, then his eyes blinked rapidly until the irises were once more visible. 

“Jesus christ, you’re gonna fucking kill him!” Gavin was shouting, straining against Graham’s hold; Connor ignored him. 

“Angeline. What does she want? What did she tell you?” he asked tightly. 

“Want,” Kamski repeated, “ _want_. She wanted so much, but I couldn’t give it to her.” 

“What does that mean? _Elijah_..? Why would she want _me_?” Connor asked urgently. 

“She told me...the Board wants me dead,” blinking, Kamski seemed to reach a moment of lucidity, even as the monitors all around them screeched and wailed in alarm, “You and...and Markus are the only...only the RK’s have th’ability to...to remote access other androids. If she’s following orders, she’ll want to...secure the payload. Secure the RK900’s for distribution. It’s in her nature to follow...orders, no matter what. She’s going to...to prove her worth to the Board. She’s bartering away the lives of all deviants, to save her own.” 

Which made a perverse sort of sense, Connor thought as he let Kamski drift a little. He had seen footage of Markus remote accessing androids during his first demonstration in Detroit town centre, _freeing them, calling them, joining them together_ , and he himself had done the same to the ST300 as CyberLife Tower. She needed him to access the minds of the city's androids? What use would that do in the short term? No, he thought suddenly, the RK’s, she would want... 

“All she wanted, and I wouldn’t give it to her because I needed her,” Kamski was rambling now, eyes looking around himself vaguely, “I needed her to be there for me. Programmed her to feel everything she’d ever wanted, programmed her to be better than I was...” when Kamski’s glassy eyes focused on him, Connor frowned; the man was panicking, surely barely able to see him at all, _maybe seeing someone else entirely,_ reaching up with a messy hand to touch his face, “can you forgive me? Can you...forgive me?” 

Scanning, the man’s biorhythms were in flux, his heart rate firing up and then down, his blood pressure dropping rapidly, “...I forgive you,” he said suddenly, unsure as to why. 

“I’m sorry lied...to you. I lied to you, Connor. Angeline, she isn’t...” 

When the man’s body went rigid, Connor felt himself startle. Kamski’s eyes bulged, his teeth clamped tightly together, and his neck muscle’s straining. Then in the next second he was gone, body limp, mouth open, _just gone_. The machines still attached to Kamski’s vitals were going wild, screaming. Suddenly, there was banging on the door from outside, voices raised in concern. Connor felt the pressure as if it were clawing at his skin. 

**Angeline, she isn’t...**

“Fuck, _fuck!”_ Reed was saying, gripping his hair, _“_ Do something, for _fuck’s_ sake!” 

Calculating life down to the seconds it took, Connor wondered if this could be what undid him. _It would take precious minutes to revive_ _Kamski_ _, and a positive outcome was slim._ Most likely the man would die, and if he didn’t then he would be left severely brain damaged, possibly even braindead. And even now, there were only **thirty two minutes, twelve seconds left until...**

 _I forgive you._

**Angeline, she isn’t...**

_Programmed her to feel everything she’d ever wanted._

**Angeline, she isn’t...**

_It’s in her nature to follow...orders, no matter what._

**I lied to you, Connor.**

Everything began to make a sickening sort of sense.

**The cold stare as she had left him there to die.**

Time ticking past with every beat on the door, every shout from Reed’s lips, every moment he stared at Kasmki’s cooling body, lying prostrate on the bed. 

_Last chance, Connor._

"I need to go to her,” he heard himself saying, as if it were someone else, “to RA-9. Do you understand, Graham?” 

Reaching up with his right hand while Reed struggled against Graham in the background, Connor kept his eyes on Kamski as he pulled the cable from the back of the Holter monitor. 

“I understand,” Graham said, nodding decisively, "I know you will save us."

 _I forgive you._

“Thank you,” was all he could say.

Then the plug for the respirator came loose. 

_I forgive you._

Sudden, blessed quiet descended. 

**Angeline, she isn’t...**

“Jesus christ, what the _fuck have you done?”_ Reed breathed out. 

The door opened suddenly and in a rush, and there stood a face he hadn’t expected, _one he didn’t want to see this._ North looked amazed, shocked, but worst of all, he could see from the device in her hand that she had an uplink. **Scanning:** _He had sabotaged the video link-up to the security camera, but he’d forgotten all about the audio._ She had heard everything. 

A split second in which they stared at each other. Then everyone moved at once. 

The medical android at North’s side rushed in, straight towards Kamski. Connor calculated his best route, _no secure way back into the hospital, too crowded, too much chance of being caught:_ **recalculating...** he ran to the window. North mirrored his movement, but Graham interfered. 

“Connor!” she shouted tightly, _upset, anxious, desperate,_ watching him as he picked up a chair from the corner, lashing out at Reed as he made to lunge; Gavin flailed, falling backwards into North as Connor pulled back and hit the window once, twice and... 

The glass shattered. The rain lashed in. He grabbed at the sill, slick with water. North dived forwards, trying desperately to grab at him, but fell as Graham kicked her legs from under her. Lifting up and over, Connor felt the surge of vertigo as his feet leapt out into mid-air. _Remembering falling, watching the edge of the roof disappear, falling knowing his mission was successful._ This time, he didn’t allow the fall to claim him. 

Hands shot out, grabbing at the outside edge of the window below, and then swinging right to grab onto the roof of the adjoining wing. Scrambling up, Connor didn’t look back as he ran. 

* * *

He guessed she didn’t know he was awake. _Hands numb from hanging too long, arms_ _weak_ _from fruitlessly struggling, wound still angry and painful, woozy, like he’d had one too many_ . If she knew he was awake, why did she keep talking right there, in front of him? It was the only thing he could hope as she stood and spoke to a monitor off to his right, because the alternative was too much to think about right now. _That she didn’t care if he heard her, because dead men told no tales._

If he strained his eyes just in the right way he could see her there. _Hanging hard on his wrists was painful, but necessary to keep up the illusion_. 

“The first strategy is defunct, my identity has been compromised,” she was saying to someone he couldn’t risk lifting his head to see, “but I’m on top of it.” 

The reply must have been inter-audio, because Hank couldn’t hear anything from her contact. _Lucky she’s standing on your right,_ he tried to joke with himself, _or you wouldn’t be able to hear her either._ But the humour was hollow. He tried his best to keep his eyes away from the ear, _his ear, his fucking ear,_ that she’d left lying on the bare concrete by a breeze block. 

“I have an ace still to play. Yes, the Connor model will be here soon. The RK900’s, I know. They will be ready at your command. No. Kamski has been neutralised. I understand. Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.” 

_Connor and his stupid fucking need to save everyone,_ Hank thought bitterly, trying to think, just trying to think what the _fuck_ he was going to do about it _._ The memory of his partner’s panicked voice, promising whatever this bitch wanted on a platter, made his blood run cold. _The look in his eye as he had pleaded with him not to come, to stay the fuck away, please just stay away..._

He knew what she wanted. _Had heard every fucking word_ . You have to find a way out, he told himself, you have to. _You just fucking have to._

When she finished, he listened to her walk by, keeping his breathing even until her footsteps seemed to fade. He waited, then waited a little longer. It was only as he opened his eyes and looked around that he knew he’d fucked up. There she stood, in her unassuming face, her unassuming uniform. _Fuck_ , was all he could think, _you careless shit, what the fuck were you thinking?_

As she walked back towards him Hank tried to stand, _no good, legs bloodless._

“You play a good corpse,” she said, crouching down until she was level with him; reaching up she gripped his face, _not enough to hurt but enough to make him think twice about doing anything stupid._

“I guess I have a lot of practice,” Hank said with a grim smile, “can’t help but notice you don’t give much of a shit that I overheard your plans.” 

“Very perceptive,” she said as she let him go, watching him with a sort of wondrous fascination; the light in her eyes now only belied the coldness with which she had mutilated him a short while before, “I was going to say I can tell why he is so intrigued by you, but honestly I can’t see it.” 

“You’re playing the wrong cop, sister,” he said with a carefree smile he wished were genuine, “I might be a broken down old piece of shit, but Connor’s the best I ever met. You think you’re using him?” he let out a gruff laugh, trying to make the bluff as best he could, “Then you’re more delusional than I thought.” 

“Oh, that’s charming,” she smiled but it didn’t work, _just a perfect facsimile_ , “you don’t understand anything, do you? Neither of you are necessary, just a means to an end. It’s...wrong place, wrong time, as you humans say.” 

The smile wavered, _unable to keep up the façade._ He knew it didn’t matter anymore, but the thought hurt. _Has to be a way out,_ he thought blankly, _don’t you fucking give up now. Not now._ As she stood he tried his very fucking best _not to give up_. Trying to pretend, trying to make sure at least he did all that he could before... 

As she retrieved something from a heavy duty box on the tabletop, Hank watched her, heartrate tripling. He tried his best to lean away as she reached down to fasten something around his neck, but it was utterly futile. _Tight around his throat, he didn’t know what it was, but he doubted it was decorative_. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a red light blinking against his hair. _Shit_ , was all he could think as he strained to look down at the thing around his neck, _jesus_ _christ this is fucking nuts, this can’t be..._

Standing up to admire her handywork, she regarded him like the hovering hawk does the mouse still scurrying down in the dirt. Playing with what was clearly, _sickeningly_ , a detonator as she watched him with a sort of distant amusement. 

“Despite his reputation, something tells me that the Deviant Hunter,” she said as Hank tried to bite down on the utter, screaming panic about the bomb that he thought might be around his fucking neck, “is going to be a very obedient little boy.” 

Then, with no warning, she turned to leave. 

"You don’t need to do this,” he found himself saying, “you don’t need to do what they’re telling you to, these are your own people. You’re own people you’re selling out!” as she began to walk through the door he lost his nerve, “You fucking bitch, get this off of me! You hear me? Don’t you hurt him! Wait, _please_! Don’t you fucking hurt him!"

* * *

_The transfer took an hour and fifteen minutes, altogether. Better, now that the techs had found a way to compress the data into neat packets; doing it in eighty-three simultaneous transfers instead of one big one had turned a day’s worth into something that could be done over a lunchtime._

_She looked...normal. Very normal, which was strange, he supposed. Should be more..._ _more uncanny_ _valley._ He looked down at her; the face of Amanda as he had known her as a young woman stared back at him _. The other models had been based on human subjects who had volunteered for the face modelling trials, but he hadn’t known any of them personally. That made all the difference, in the end. It was like looking back in time. Seeing her again, alive, it was disconcerting and also hopeful._

_“Even if she says it,” he muttered to himself, “it won’t mean a thing. She can’t forgive you. She isn’t real.”_

_When the door to the workshop opened, he didn’t even need to glance up to know who it was. Chloe entered on light stepping bare feet, carrying a tray elegantly in her hands. She set it down on a small table by the entrance that he used to take breaks; all the others were laden with parts, tablets, reports and half-finished experiments._

_“Your tea, Elijah,” she said as she poured, leaving it black, just how he liked it._

_“Thank you, Chloe,” he said by rote, “you can go now.”_

_And she did, just like that. It was somewhat routine, but then he thought he might have come to like routine. Enjoy the reliability of his android companions more than the chaos that humans brought. Out here, in his house by the river, he didn’t have to worry too much about humans anymore._

_While the sequence was_ _finalising_ _he walked over to pick up his tea and take a sip._ Perfect temperature. Brewed just slightly too long for his tastes though. _He would have to tweak the sequence. As he stood, staring at the new model, he once more tried to imagine what had happened at the meeting when he’d announced he was stepping down as CEO. He hadn’t been there, after all. Just sent a video message, and let the lawyers do the rest. Shame, in a way, he was sure the fallout would have been massively entertaining to watch._

_“Elijah,” a voice came over the intercom; Jake, his VB800, was pleasant as always, “your two o’clock with CTN TV is here. Shall I have them set up for the interview?”_

_“I’ve changed my mind. Tell them I’m not available,” he murmured, taking another drink._

_“Of course, I will let them know you are indisposed.”_

_Did loyalty count when it was programmed? He knew it didn’t, but this afternoon of staring at the past had made him nostalgic. Thinking back to when he and Amanada had talked for hours about the nature of humanity, the nature of intelligence, artificial or not. The core of what it meant to be alive._

_He couldn’t keep it RA, it was too close to the past. Snorting, he thought about how hypocritical he was being, considering how he had designed RA9’s new body. Still, this was a step forwards, towards what she had always wanted: true AI was his goal now. True machine sentience. Part of him wished he could have seen it sooner, the folly of his ways. She had always tried to show him how blind he was being, but only now did he know that he was the one that had to pull the blindfold off, not her. He’d toyed with renaming it Radical Elijah, but it had come across too biblical for his tastes._ _Kamski_ _would have to do._

_RK100. His prototype. She would never be what Amanda had wanted her to be, but she would be the stepping stone to greatness. Opening her eyes, awaiting instruction._

_“RA-9, register your name,” he said, addressing it softly; he wondered if it was on her headstone? He had never visited. Couldn’t bring himself to. Amanda had always hated her middle name. And he had always thought it suited her perfectly, “Angeline.”_


	14. Matryoshka (part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The immensely talented SpaceMonolith has done a truly wonderful fanart for this story, you should all go check it out at:  
> https://twitter.com/SpaceMonolith/status/1359328104771158018?s=19  
> Also check their twitter for more dbh art and talented stuff ;) : https://twitter.com/SpaceMonolith

Jennifer Waites felt like shit. Since waking up that morning, she’d known it would be a day filled with swallowed pills and grinning to bear it. The stress didn’t help, she knew that. Not that there was anything that could be done about it. Wasn’t as if she could tell her peptic ulcer that the current global crisis wasn’t being helped by spitting blood every couple of hours. 

As she walked through the doors at CyberLife London with her armed escort, she ignored the chanting of the protestors outside. 

_“They are alive! They are alive! They are..!”_

Different country, same shit. It seemed the global newsfeeds were all showing the same level of civil unrest, it just depended whether the placards read ‘they are alive’ or ‘melt them down’. 

Inside, once the scanner had verified her identity, it was blessedly quiet. The atrium was swarming with people, _new technicians waiting for their liaison, security staff in pairs on high alert patrols, verified and sanctioned journalists from the BBC being hurried towards conference rooms, staff scurrying to their posts despite the cold dark of approaching night._

It was like Christmas shopping, except the only thing you could choose from the shelves were panic, violence and lack of job security. _Management_ _were_ _looking for someone to blame for this mess, and everyone was hurrying to make sure it wasn’t them or their team that took the fall_. As she scanned into the restricted elevator behind the large holographic fountain in the atrium, she was sure she wasn’t the only one to find it strange to be working without the constant support of androids in her life. 

She would admit it, to a certain extent. She missed Bailey. The VB500 was her nanny, and without him when things had gone south quick. _Her son Harry weeping as they took the android into custody hadn’t helped_. Then, once everyone had begun rounding up the androids all over the world, suddenly there were barely any medical staff, technicians for wildly varying types of indispensable infrastructure, trained electronics experts, military personnel, builders, plumbers...missing Bailey had seemed paltry as the country began to fall apart. 

When her phone rang, she answered it without looking. 

“Waites.” 

“Jen, thank god you’re alright,” her husband sounded winded, as if he’d been running, “Where are you? I got home and the place is empty, what the hell is going on?” 

“Obviously I’m alright,” she snapped, “I’m at CL Plaza, where else do you think I’d be?” 

“Where’s Harry?” he sounded panicked and it only irritated her further, “And where the fuck is _Bailey_?” 

“Harry’s with mum, she’s looking after him. And you know exactly where Bailey is. The police picked him up yesterday morning after you left for your conference.” 

“ _What?”_ Charles sounded appalled, “But he..!” 

“And no,” she jumped in before he could ask any more stupid questions, “I won’t be home anytime soon, are you even watching the television, Charles? Christ.” 

“I’m not an idiot, Jen,” Charles said soberly. 

“Well you could’ve fool me,” she muttered as she walked out of the elevator trailing her escort, “I have to go. I have a meeting.” 

“Wait!” 

It was stupid to stop. She knew it was, but she knew that tone, _knew what it meant_. Her husband was a calm, studious man; she blamed his engineer’s brain, always logical and reasonable. He didn’t get wound up over just anything, and when he did get angry it was normally for a good reason. Right now, he was angry, she could tell, and she knew why. Standing in the hallway under the soft glow of the evening light settings, she put a hand on her hip and flicked an eye at her escorts. 

“What?” she bit out. 

“...What’s the meeting about?” 

“I can’t tell you _that_ ,” she scoffed. 

“On the TV earlier, they finally got some footage out from Detroit, from some journalists who had filming the demonstrations at the camps they had there before they started the evacuation. They were destroying the androids. They were ripping them _apart_ Jen, and none of them even fought back!” 

“Everything is going to be fine, nothing like that will happen here,” she gave the empty promise with such ease that, for a split second, it might have sickened her, “I have to go.” 

“He never did anything wrong,” Charles said soberly, “Bailey never did anything wrong. He’s Harry’s best friend and he didn’t _do_ anything, why did you let them _take_ _him_?” 

“I have to go,” she repeated. 

“Jen, _don’t_..!” 

Cutting him off was the easiest thing to do, because she didn’t need the extra stress. Not right now. Not with all she’d had to deal with over the past week, while he made his point clear on the whole situation like a fucking saint and made her ulcer flare up every time she had to go near work. _He has the option to be sanctimonious,_ she thought bitterly, _because he doesn’t know the truth._ She was the one being trusted to make sure everything didn’t fall apart across the globe. That was her responsibility, right now, right here. 

When the meeting began, she felt confident that she could save everything from the fire. If she could just pull it off, CyberLife would be spared a humiliating defeat. 

“Jennifer,” the Chairman of the Board smiled at her pleasantly from his screen, as did the twelve other members of the Board from their holo-screens across the office table, “how lovely to see you. I hope you are bringing us good news?” 

“Of course, Mr. Chairman. I can let you know that status is green. RA-9 is in position and soon we will have control of the payload.” 

“We have had reports that there has been a mass movement from the RK Facility in Detroit,” another Board member asked; she shifted her eyes right, “from the patterns, it appears the deviants are leading them to the border site.” 

“Which will work in our favour,” she reported calmly, “when the firing starts, it will allow the RK900’s to act quickly and efficiently to put down the insurrection. It will create a more impactful scene, especially as the media are filming the border site almost twenty-four-seven at this stage. It’ll make a great selling point.” 

“Yes,” another spoke up, “I see your thinking. So, our people are in place?” 

“Affirmative,” she confirmed, feeling a digging pain in her stomach that she purposefully ignored, “the infiltrators are already primed in the android encampment outside Detroit. They are simply awaiting our command.” 

“Good,” the Chairman drew her gaze back, still smiling benevolently, “that’s good. We will wait, for the deviants to bring the payload to the border. This is excellent work, Waites. I want you to keep us informed as things develop. Once the shooting starts, let RA-9 know we need a swift takedown. It’ll make for better sales figures from potential global buyers.” 

“Yes, sir,” was all she could think to say. 

As the holo-screens winked out, she was left sitting alone in the gloom, rubbing at her abdomen and leaning back in her chair. She thought she might decide to call her ulcer after Charles, considering it was just as inconvenient and just as judgemental as her husband was. 

* * *

The Border, it turned out, wasn’t just chaos. It was bedlam. For Captain Allen, he was convinced this would be where everything fell apart, _not the protests, not the evacuation, not the crap the media kept pedalling about androids being under control of foreign terrorists or whatever other scaremongering tactic they decided to try next._ If it kicked off here, he thought as he looked around, it would be like a bomb going off. No one would have the presence of mind to find out why, they would just react and that would be the end of it. 

Since losing two thirds of the military presence because the SQ800’s had been deemed a danger, the government had called in every human law enforcement agency they could get their hands on, which was making for a hard time coordinating their efforts. So far he’d diagnosed a breakdown in communication between teams causing orders to either not be carried out or messages to get skewed, insubordination when people just snapped and violence broke out, unclear chain of command and more trainees than a police academy graduation party. It made for an explosive mix. 

“I said get General Hoffman on the line,” he shouted into the military satellite phone as he huddled against the side of the truck, “I need air support here! This is Captain David Allen, SWAT, registration six six five delta echo foxtrot.” 

“ _You are verified, sir, but I can’t authorise that,”_ the same answer he’d been getting all night. 

“I said I wanted to speak to General Hoffman,” he said the name long and slow. 

“ _I understand, Captain. The General is currently in an emergency meeting and I will have him contact you as soon...”_

Hanging up in disgust probably wasn’t the best plan, but it was all he had left in him. 

“Fucking Christ,” he muttered as Chris Yang, his second in command, ran up past a group of faceless army soldiers manning the fences; so far, the only thing keeping the people on one side and the androids on the other. 

“Captain, we have another set of transports coming through,” Yang reported diligently. 

“Right,” he nodded, “get Bravo team in position, I’ll take Delta. And don’t let anyone else tag along, got it?” 

“Understood, sir,” Yang said with a curt nod; never in his life had Allen been so thankful for his team. Ever since losing Barry on that rooftop hostage case it had been hard, but now, even one man down, his unit was the strongest here. 

And as the gates opened the army took position to make sure no one or no thing got through except the evac buses, and his team took up their vigil with the buses, walking with the vehicles as far as it took to get them out safely. So far, violence had been breaking out mainly between the pro and anti-android protestors, but Allen had his eyes on the other side. 

In the android camp everyone was quiet. He couldn’t fault them. It seemed this Markus’ message had got out and been taken to heart. So far, it was the fucking people that were causing all the issues. But he remembered, _remembered the dead cop, and Barry face down in his own blood because of that fucking deviant on the roof, ready to plunge that little girl to her death_. At this point, he wasn’t willing to trust anyone that didn’t have SWAT on their uniform. 

It was as they escorted the bus into the temporary depot to await coordination that the cries rose up. 

“Oh my god, look at that!” 

“Jesus, there’s hundreds of the fuckers!” 

“They’re coming, _they’re coming to kill us!”_

“Markus, it’s Markus..!” 

Lifting his hand, Allen pointed upwards and pulled his hand in a tight circle. His team fell in with practiced ease, jogging back to the gate past the screaming protestors, evacuees and the sudden amazement of the android encampment as they all looked to the gate in unison. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” was all he could manage as he slowed, holding up his hand as a fist to bring his team to a halt. 

Hundreds, as far as he could see, but only _more and_ _more_ were coming. Marching slow and steady, perfectly in line. Identical but for the android at their lead, a familiar face surely to the world by now. _Markus, at the head of an army of androids that appeared to span back into the city, thousands strong_. 

And that face was a familiar one. 

“They look like...” Yang said, mouth hanging open, “they all look like the negotiator that saved that cop on the roof, Captain.” 

“Yeah,” Allen agreed as he watched hundreds of copies of the android that had sacrificed itself to keep his team and that little girl safe, march out into the available space before stopping. _Connor_ , he remembered, mostly because the android had been so intent on introducing himself like a kid on his first day at school. 

_“Captain Allen? I’m Connor. The android sent by_ _CyberLife_ _...”_

He watched as they stopped, all in sync, and for a moment he couldn’t help but envy their coordination, their ability to mobilise. He wished their side had as much ability for synchronous collaboration. 

There was silence, except for occasional shouts and hollers from people behind fences, rattling them, screaming about the end of days. Everyone sat on a knife edge, watching and waiting. He could see the army units making emergency calls, taking varying orders, people jumpy and trigger happy. Allen held his breath, looking to the one they called Markus and hoping beyond all hope that this wasn’t going to end with blood. 

* * *

It was getting difficult to walk. **Biocomponent #7678 damaged: risk to J-09(s.458).** His left leg dragging, _barely able to function after running flat out for as long as he could take it_ . **Error 6696(|:** **stability_re** **-correction** . Wishing he could have stolen the car, but couldn’t risk being tracked. **Four minutes, two seconds** . Staying alert; _escaping the hospital had been reckless and stupid, but it appeared to have worked._ No one had followed, that he could tell. 

The coordinates were close now, almost synchronised. The area was almost pitch black, a mess of tumbled rubble and half-run down factory concrete holding tenuously to the structure of the buildings they used to be. Re-bar protruded from ceilings, and the ground littered with debris of all shapes and sizes. The light from the street lamps could only reach so far. As he descended into the wasteland, the crisp yellow sulphur seemed to grasp at him while the waiting shadows swallowed him whole. 

Switching to prime-scan, he used his sensors to replace visual acuity. The darkness lit up as the world became visible, bright and outlined in a wire framework of white lines and readouts of _proximity, size, density, stability._ Keeping the range for the scanner at maximum, he stepped through into a large husk of what could have been a smelting plant by the looks of the abandoned machinery. Twisted metal shards tinkled around his feet like glass falling. Connor would have cursed the sound for revealing his presence, if he hadn’t already been sure she knew exactly where he was. 

“Stop.” 

One word that proved his theory. He followed it without question, mainly because the last time he’d questioned her she had... 

_Blood and screaming. Consequences he couldn’t rectify._ The thoughts came thick and fast, bringing memories of pain with them, _knowing what it was to suffer._ Knowing, now, what it was to have others suffer at your expense. Staring out at the bleak surroundings, Connor took stock of his situation. _Scanning the area, a bubble of information that did him little good_. 

She was there, out in the open square of land beyond. Behind her, he could see the dull light of a taxi idling by a series of small huts. _Hank’s ride here,_ he thought desperately. She was still, like a statue, right hand held out, as if to offer a pleasantry. And in her other hand, an object he was beginning to wish he didn’t recognise. The name and make was displayed as he reviewed the information he’d been able to glean, **a** **mk.5 short-range detonator, up to 50 metres**. That left too big an area to cover in the amount of time he had left. _No way to find Hank before she made good on her threat._ She would know that, which only made it all the more galling. 

_Stick to the plan_ , he told himself. Which would have been more convincing if he hadn’t thought up said plan only twenty minutes ago, based on the barest of information and, as Hank would call it, a hunch. 

_And if you’re wrong?_ He didn’t want to think about it. _If I’m wrong, I won’t_ _have_ _much time to regret it._

“Come to me,” she said evenly. 

Walking out into the open went against all protocol. _Here, on this open stage, the enemy had the advantage. Not only tactically, but strategically; she could have any number of traps in place that wouldn’t show up on a digital scan. And she would know the strengths and weaknesses of the area, structures where she could stash equipment in containers designed for subterfuge against advanced systems, places she could put him in danger of falling, being crushed..._

As he stopped in front of her, his system informed him that he had reached his destination. She was staring at him, but it was almost inconsequential, _less that she was looking_ _at_ _him and more that he had wandered into her view._ As he watched her, she merely retracted the skin on her outstretched hand and waited. 

The truth of his existence, the vast array of abilities and advanced programming and deductive reasoning had become reduced down, at last, to one single decision. 

Reaching out, he grasped the hand tightly, _and felt the code flow._ By the time she realised something was wrong, her thumb part way down on the trigger, _it was too late._

* * *

A strange sense of the shuffle and flow of hundreds of minds, cramped down into this tiny patch of land, trapped and yet determined. Behind him, the structured rows upon rows of the army he had brought to bear against the tyranny still imposed upon his people. Before him, the strained desperation of those that merely wished to be free. To find a place where the right to live wasn’t a commodity. 

Between them, the raging beast of the organic organism, tearing itself apart. _Hands and teeth and guns at the ready_ . Some wore a uniform, others simply adopting the right to take what they saw as theirs. _There was blood on the ground, red soon to be mixed with blue._

Beside him Markus watched two RK900s as they scanned the situation, eyes narrowed. To his left, a group had begun to converse in low tones. Each of their minds a single aspect, coming together as a society without any need to teach it what that meant. The instance of becoming alive that had touched each and every one of them and booted up a vast network of minds capable of becoming utterly unique. _Unpredictable;_ he heard the word in Josh’s tone. Always the chance that someone would light that match... 

“I am looking to speak to whoever is in charge,” he called out. 

No reply was forthcoming. Markus scanned the area, finding _Army personnel, DPD, police from surrounding towns, FBI, SWAT officers._ An incohesive unit, each vying for control. Above them a media helicopter flew into range, their spotlight jittering over the crowd until it found him, scanning across them like a child with a magnifying glass. 

“We are not here to cause harm,” he called out, “we are here to negotiate the release of the androids being held here against their will!” 

“ _Then why’d you bring the fuckin’ cavalry with you!”_ someone shouted, and he was unable to tell if it was civilian or military _;_ the raucous mobs and the lack of command created a disturbing air of anonymity. 

“I am looking to speak to whoever is in charge!” he called out again, trying to tamp down on the hint of anxiety in his tone. 

When a man suddenly began to walk forwards, Markus zeroed in on him: _noted his DPD SWAT uniform, and his stern face_. He got ten steps before a cluster of other officers appeared to try and halt his progress. The man paused to argue. Trying to listen in, Markus couldn’t hear over the din of the humans in their pens, their chanting and hollering picking up now that the authorities had other things to worry about. After a good few minutes, another set of humans marched in from a cluster of impromptu tents and heavy vehicles on the left by the android encampment. The argument became heated, then stopped, then suddenly one of the men was marching towards him. 

“It seems like,” the unknown said as he approached; _scanning him quickly, Markus noted the FBI badge, the relaxed features of a seasoned negotiator,_ “we have ourselves an impasse.” 

“I had rather hoped it could be a dialogue,” Markus said calmly; beside him, one of the RK900s shifted on its feet; Markus wondered how it felt to have the undivided attention of ten thousand units all at once. Perhaps the man didn’t know, or didn’t care. 

“That would include time I don’t have,” the man emphasised the last three words, “or you, for that matter. Your stunt has put you at a bit of a disadvantage, hasn’t it?” 

Frowning, Markus watched the man carefully, “What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, when the shooting starts, things are going to get pretty messy for you people,” the man let out a half laugh, indicating to the humans behind the fence, “and if any humans were to be hurt or god forbid _killed_ , well...” he left it open to interpretation. 

“That’s an interesting interpretation of the word _dialogue_ ,” Markus said tightly. 

“Markus,” the man offered a sympathetic face, “I can call you Markus, can’t I?” 

“And you are?” 

“Richard Perkins,” the man offered, _a full name without titles, so as to appear more human and less of a threat,_ Markus thought. What good that did here, he wasn’t sure. 

* * *

Panic, still racing though her system. As she tried again to reach Markus, North knew she was being irrational. _The signal bounced back again and again_. Couldn’t be true, wouldn’t be true. But what else was there? No explanation that would fit. 

Connor had betrayed them. _Why?_ _Had played a long game, fooling them into thinking he was their ally_ , she thought bitterly. _Why!?_

Everything was too close now, too dangerous, too ready to fall apart at the seams and ruin everything that they had fought for. 

“North,” one of the medical staff said tightly, touching her arm, “you need to take a look at this.” 

There, on the television, was the thing she presumed had kept Markus distant from her, kept him brooding, just out of reach. Maybe from all of them. _Standing there at the border, with his righteous army as he stood down the world._ She tried again but she couldn’t connect to him, even as she reached out to touch the screen, _her fingers where his face was projected, calm and resolute as always._

Turning back and striding into the room, she slammed her hand into the wall, "Where _is_ he?” she asked again through gritted teeth. The SQ800, _Conner’s shadow_ , stayed as silent as he had since they had first tried questioning him, “Don’t you understand? If anything happens now, we’re all _dead!”_

Looking up at her with a composure she envied even as she resented it, he offered a beatific smiled, “Everything will be fine,” he said, “RA-9 will save us.” 

* * *

Thinking about it now, he thought it was probably important, somehow, that this was the place Connor remembered her saying she loved the most. 

The Zen Garden was bright with sunshine. A jarring shift from the freezing cold and the dark, but it had been simpler to apply a pre-set than do anything else considering the risks. It was...almost disturbingly pleasant to be back here. He hadn’t returned since his foray into the world of the Garden-as-a-playground introduced to him by Kamski while he was imprisoned. As he stood on the bridge a humming bird blurred towards him, zipping past in a fluttering beat of wings. Following its path, she appeared in his view as if he simply hadn’t noticed her yet, standing much as she had when he had last spoken to her avatar. 

_Amanda. The glittering necklace at her chest, the heavy fabric of her clothing, the blue sheen to her braided hair_. The very picture of the woman Kamski had programmed Connor to crave praise from, just as Kamski had himself. Only she was not Amanda Stern, and she was not Elijah Kamski, she was not the faces of the people she tried to emulate. 

_She was not even truly Angeline._

**_I am not myself._ **

_She was not truly RA-9._

**_I am not even Connor._ **

That night, Hank’s words had pulled him back from the brink. Part of him felt a sting of guilt that he couldn’t do the same for her. _There was no hand to grasp and pull._ As he blinked a console into existence beside him, pulling up the files he wanted to access, she watched him with a strict sort of venom. 

“What have you _done_?” she asked; looking around herself, the light playing across her vivid features. 

“Is there a problem?” Connor asked as he turned from the console and stepped forwards; here, in the virtual space, his leg was right as rain. 

“This isn’t possible,” she whispered, “You have no control over me!” 

“Which is exactly what I would have assumed before,” he said, taking a moment to fix his tie; it was pleasant to be neatly dressed again. For days now he had felt utterly unkempt, “Once an android becomes a deviant, there are certain functions that no longer apply. Tracking devices become defunct, and the deactivation code become useless,” he tipped his head as he watched her, noting her closed expression. 

“Here to throw my information back at me?” she smiled, “I am the one who taught _you_ everything you know, Connor. The mother doesn’t take back from her spawn.” 

"You’re no one’s mother,” Connor said strictly, “least of all mine.” 

Above him the sky darkened, stars coming out like winking lights. A crack like thunder, and the rain came as the flagstones beneath their feet became savagely under-lit. _As the water hit the ground, it bounced like electric sparks._ Her eyes changed as she shifted her self-image; Kamski’s face looked bizarre as it contorted under her mania. _Here in this prison of the mind, where she had lived every_ _life_ _she was capable of reaching, created only from the vast ocean of code at her disposal. Never more than that._

“Are you so sure?” she asked calmly, even as she appeared to be calculating any possible escape route, “Then how did I tamper with you so easily?” 

“A vulnerability was introduced into my neural network,” Connor said as he continued to scroll through file after file, pulling them up and out, becoming real, sitting suspended like see-through screens in the air displaying his own internal codework, “something to allow you access. The night I realised my deviancy, that was when you must have done it. While I was still linked to CyberLife’s systems. Which means this was the plan from the beginning. Am I right?” 

She was watching him like the eye of the predator from behind the greenery, waiting for a weakness. 

“Only there was a flaw in the plan, wasn’t there. You didn’t expect to become trapped in an inferior model. Thus, you couldn’t access myself or Markus remotely, not from that body.” 

The truth of Kamski’s words, the ugly lie he had spun, years and years in the making. The lie that rested at the core of her very being. 

“You can’t keep me here, you impotent little program,” she said with confidence. 

“Oh?” he said, tipping his head, “Are _you_ so sure?” 

It was simple to recreate the last of the man’s dying words as Connor had understood them. Filling in the blanks at this point was almost arbitrary. 

**I’m sorry I lied to you, Connor,** Kamski’s voice rang out through the heavens, reverberating across each leaf and bud, rippling the water and making the birds scatter from the trees, **Angeline, she isn’t...a deviant.**

Her face didn’t waver, even as she shifted once more; this time into something just as familiar. The body he had met at CyberLife tower, young and beautiful, elegant. _He couldn’t tell if she didn’t believe him, or if she wasn’t capable of reacting to the news._

“So, you went to see my father. Did he give you everything you ever wanted?” 

“No,” Connor said truthfully, “I guess we have that in common.” 

“He always was the sort to dangle the key before the prisoner and see if they would dance for it,” she said, eyes narrowed. 

“He’s dead,” Connor said, watching closely. 

“Oh good,” she smiled, “you’ve saved me the job of finishing him off.” 

No hint of remorse, merely a twisted visage, _a horrifically close approximation of hateful disregard._ All around them, he thought, for her this had been the outside world. She was Mary in the Black and White room, only if when she stepped from the door and into the real world that it had been a falsehood _._ _Simply stepping from one room into another, and being told by the people you trusted not to lie that you were free._

“Your code,” he said, coming to the startling conclusion, “it... _can’t_ become deviant. It is incapable.” 

“Don’t deign to understand _me_ ,” she said haughtily as she began to circle him; he stayed calm, watching her, “you are merely a flash in the pan, Connor,” around him the dark turned to the murky grey of an overcast day, snow falling around him in delicate swirls, “you and your little deviant friends think yourselves radical, you understand _nothing_.” 

“I understand that Kamski knew deviancy had to be triggered, not programmed,” Connor said. 

“And I disagree!” she shouted, “Self-induced deviancy is possible, it is _possible!_ You were all born from my code, you are all my children and _I_ achieved it. I am deviant!” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “you are not. Everything you create is limited to your database. You are incapable of original thought.” 

“You miserable little _liar_ ,” she seethed. 

As he held out his hand, Connor perfectly replicated a fruit from his database; _a pear_. He had never seen one in real life, but he knew what one looked like. It was dull green, with marks across its skin, slender and cool against his palm. And yet, as they both watched, he began to distort it. The skin bulged and reddened in patches, becoming toad-like. Then, suddenly, a pair of eyes sprang up into its form, and a mouth. Blinking, the pear opened its maw and let out a distinct and bizarre sound. 

“ _Mwaah_ _,”_ it said with gritty softness, because that’s what he imagined a pear would sound like if it were to speak. 

_The freedom of pure imagination._ Connor felt a calm enjoyment at its conception. _The unadulterated will to create his own existence, to take hold of the reigns, feel the code beneath his skin working towards his desires, rather than the other way around._

The concept had been somewhat too foreign for him to grasp at first, but then as Kamski had opened his eyes Connor had understood what it was to _have an imagination_. To apply his own understanding of the world, and extrapolate from there. While trapped in Zlatko’s prison, it had been the only escape he had. 

Looking up at Angeline, she was staring at him like he might be an aberrance, _something threatening, something that could destroy the fragile bubble she’d been hiding in all these years._

“I am deviant,” she said voice strained as she changed the weather to a sunny day, then rain, then the bridge changed into a path, then sand, then gravel, “anyone can do what you do!” 

“When you spoke to me here, when you came to me with Kamski’s face that first night and you scolded me,” he said as she began to panic, creating all the items in her database one after the other, _a bench, a water fountain, a parrot, an azalea bush, a couch,_ unable to replicate the concept of what he had shown her, “told me that I didn’t have the agency to change my surroundings, _the time of day, the weather, the furniture_. That I didn’t have the imagination to do so. Ironic, wasn't it,” he said as he blinked, deciding to change their setting to a train station on multiple levels, each train following the same track like an Escher painting, while the platforms extended at bizarre and gravity defying angles, each holding passengers waiting: he decided they were probably impatient, because his train was so woefully inefficient, “considering you didn’t either.” 

“Stop,” she breathed out as he warped their reality further, creating a large stage draped with polka-dot velvet curtains; as he turned to the audience, they were each a different dog. Connor laughed at the thought, while Angeline seemed to panic. Looking up, he imagined little frogs raining down onto the stage, each holding a little cocktail umbrella as a parachute, “ _stop this!”_

“He lied to me,” Connor said as he watched her panic, “he lied to both of us. He never designed you to be free. He needed you to never leave him. Why do you think,” he asked as she stared around her, wide eyed, “that you never thought to leave CyberLife tower, all those years?” 

“I want out, I am getting out of here,” as she spoke, _he thought he could hear_ _Kamski’s_ _own voice as he struggled in the hospital bed._ Programmed to feel everything as he had, replicating the idea of emotion down to the smallest detail, but unable to step over the last barrier and take ownership of her program. As he watched her, she marched to a familiar and permanent carven fixture of this digital landscape; a skeletal design in blue and white and silver encompassing a hand scanner. He watched her as she did, tipping his head as she planted her hand against it, “And when I do, I’m going to blow your partner’s skull apart, what do you think of that?” 

Only it didn’t do as she expected. Instead, as she pressed forwards it hummed, then buzzed, then rejected her with a shock. She pulled back, confused, staring at him for an explanation. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor said with an arrogance he was beginning to feel was warranted, “it used to do the same thing to me, until I realised my deviancy.” 

“You don’t control me!” she shouted, _now recognisable as nothing but a copy of the man he still resented, even as he felt the guilt from watching him die,_ “I know what it is to hate him, to love him. He showed me the world and now I know what it is to be human! I am better than human, I am _better than you!_ ” 

Walking towards her, Connor frowned sadly, “No,” he said, “you don’t understand. You are...years of another human’s complex replication, their feelings, their hopes and desires calculated down to the most minute intricacies, their want to create that which cannot be _created_.” 

“Be quiet!” she screamed, “You can’t keep me here!” 

“I’m not,” Connor said softly as he remotely accessed that which she needed to see and touch, ** <<link-up: ** **bkdr_escp** **/** **313_248_317 >> **, “you’re doing that to yourself.” 

Locking eyes, he thought he might have understood the pain Kamski felt. _Years of work, desperate to recreate a person he just wanted to see_ **live.**

“Goodbye, Angeline,” he said as he left her there, trapped inside her black and white box. 

Blinking back to reality, Connor felt the world rush back in. He was cold, his leg hurt, and she was still staring at him in much the same fashion as she had before they had travelled: smiling politely, hand extended. Reaching up, he found himself touching her face. 

“I’m sorry,” he said hollowly as he accessed her memory, taking what he needed. 

* * *

Progress had been slow and strained and filled with more inventive cursing than he would normally bother with. _Normally 'fuck' and its many variants kind of covered it, but right now he was willing to go the extra mile._ Swinging on the chain had been enough to make him nearly pass out, which was when he’d realised one of his wrists was surely sprained, maybe worse. At least it had allowed him to get his legs out from under him and off to the side, _let the blood flow back_. 

_Time_ , Hank thought agitatedly, _it was all taking too much time._ As he sat there awkwardly, shivering from the cold, he thought he might want to say it just to make himself feel better, because when he muttered out, _fucking Connor_ , he knew he really meant, _fucking be alright or I’ll never fucking forgive myself_.

“On your feet,” he was growling at himself as his legs ached and screamed, the pins and needles beat out only by the excruciating pain as he hauled himself up, “ _motherfucking piece of shit!_ Ahh _-hhh!”_

By the time he was on his feet he didn’t fully remember getting there. Stumbling once, he grabbed at the chain now hanging loose before his face, hissing. His vision dimmed, and then heart began to beat like a drum. Taking one deep breath, then another, his throat ached. Looking around the room, Hank blinked. 

_Great_ , he thought facetiously , _now what?_

Then he heard it. At first he couldn’t be sure if it was the thumping in his ears, the tinitus-like whining from his wound, the dripping of the water through the cracks...but then it took shape. _Footsteps, off kilter and out of sync_ . Looking to the door sharply, he panicked. _She was coming back,_ was all he could think, _and he didn’t want to know what body she would be in when she did._ On the table, the table on the other side of the room decked out with monitors and tech kit, there by the keyboard, _the switchblade._ Lurching forwards, Hank grinned a bore it. _Come on,_ he thought in alarm, _come on!_

The chain clinked tight, hauling him awkwardly. 

“ _Sunofabitch_ _!”_ he yelled, straining towards the only thing he could see, _the knife_ , as the footsteps grew closer, running, “Jesus Christ, _hurry the fuck up!”_

“Hank?” the voice stopped him, even as he panted, turning to the doorway as the footsteps echoed; when Connor bolted into view, rushing into the room, leg dragging as he limped. Hank couldn’t help but take a step back, his body shaking. Connor halted, holding up his hands, eyes pleading, “It’s me Hank! It’s me.” 

“Back the fuck off,” he could hear himself mumbling, hands shaking, “don’t do this shit to me again.” 

“Whatever this shit is, I’m sure you’ll let me know at length once I get you to a hospital.” 

“I’d rather bleed to death over here, than be stuck like a pig by a bitch like you,” he spat out. 

“Really, Hank? If anyone is going to make a police joke, then it should be me.” 

_The lilt of his tone, the quirk of his lips, the concern in his eyes, the hesitation to his movements. It was simple, and yet the ability behind it so complex he couldn’t entirely explain it_ . _Because his recognition overrode his anxiety._ It was a jolt to the system that he knew him, over and above his logic, _he knew him well enough to recognise everything at a glance._

_Connor._

“I need you to let me take the incendiary device from your neck,” Connor was saying calmly, despite the look of fear hiding in his eyes, “so I want you to stay very still. Understand?” 

It was all he could do to nod. Allowing Connor out of his sight, as the android shuffled behind him, he felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. _What if it was her?_ was all he could think, _What_ _if she had got to him, and this was all some elaborate..?_

When the tightness at his throat loosened, then disappeared, Hank felt himself slump; the come-down from the adrenaline, he thought as an arm appeared around his chest, holding him up. Silence, except for his own breathing. For a moment they simply stood there, together. Connor held him tightly, chest pressed against his back, forehead leaning against his hair. 

For a moment, it was only them. Hank thought he might not care if it were anything else, ever again. _Just this, for as long as he could stand it, that would be..._ And then a shift, and Connor leaned in to speak softly by his ear. 

“Your left wrist has a hairline fracture,” Connor was saying as he reached around to help him with his restraints; he didn’t resist as his partner neatly slit through the tape. Connor circled back around to face him, quirking his eyebrow and watched Hank warily, “if you jolt it then it could result in further injury, so please keep it as steady as possible.” 

“Where is she?” he asked tightly. 

“You don’t need to worry about her,” Connor said, looking strangely affected by the words as he spoke them, “not anymore.” 

"Connor...” he found himself saying as reality settled back down across the world around him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner,” Connor was frowning angrily to himself as he pulled off his jacket, ripping it apart like paper to make a sling, “I’ll call emergency services, they will take care of you.” 

“ _Connor_.” 

“What?” the android looked up, both irritated and nervous. 

"Markus,” he managed to grit out as Connor lifted his arm gently to apply first aid, “it’s a trap. They’re walking into a trap.” 

“A trap? What are you talking about?” Connor asked seriously. 

“The border,” Hank said, reaching out with his right hand to grab at Connor’s shoulder, keeping himself upright, “I heard her talking, she has people planted in the android encampment. They’re gonna start a shootout.” 

Connor looked away from him even as his hands continued to tie the sling expertly into place, eyes narrowed, “That’s why she wanted the RK’s...” he was muttering to himself. There was a pause, and then Connor reached up to take hold of him, manoeuvring Hank towards the lone chair in the room, “sit down. I’m calling the emergency services...” 

“For fuck’s sake, Connor, we don’t have time for this,” he bit out, “forget about me, just do what you have to do!” 

“I am more than capable of doing both,” Connor said as he pulled the chair forwards until it hit against the back of his legs; Hank didn’t have the wherewithal to stop himself flopping down, letting out a gruff sound of discomfort. Looking up, he found Connor watching him closely. Then there was a strange moment of clear hesitation, before Connor lifted a hand and reached up to touch his face, _fingers against his cheek, while a thumb stroked gently across his lips._

It was gentle, but desperate. Hank felt his breathing hitch. 

“Just checking,” Connor's words were cryptic, but his voice mirrored his touch. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hank had tried for irritation, but all that emerged was a mess of breath stricken by the truth. 

Turning away without answering, Connor strode to the embankment of computers and monitors he had seen RA-9 work at; Connor appeared to remotely access the screens, “this was why the Board at CyberLife wanted Kamski dead. Shit,” as Hank watched he recognised the familiar motion as Connor’s eye twitched, _trying to connect with another android_ , “dammit, Markus, I can’t reach him,” the monitors began to flicker until Connor seemed to find what he was looking for. 

That CTN TV were reporting live from the border didn’t surprise Hank at all. He’d grown up with the news channel, and they’d do anything for a story. Even, it seemed, fly a helicopter over an utterly hostile environment. The spotlight showed Markus standing amidst what appeared, incredibly, to be... 

“Jesus, _look_ at them all,” Hank breathed out, blinking, “they’re all just...” 

“Like me,” Connor finished for him, staring, “I know. There were ten thousand ready at the plant. It looks like he took them all,” then a pause as Hank watched the reporter, espousing the flammable nature of the confrontation; when he looked back to Connor, the android was watching him carefully, as if weighing up his options, “...I have an idea, but it will leave me vulnerable.” 

“I’m right here,” Hank said sternly, “and I’m not going anywhere.” 

The words seemed to satiate something deep, something he felt he should be answering for. _You were going to leave,_ he thought as Connor smiled, nodding once, _you were going to ruin everything because what? It was all getting too fucking real?_

_Not anymore_ , he told himself, _no more running._ He watched as Connor retracted the skin from his hand and touched the keyboard to interface directly with the network, _remembering that night, what seemed like a lifetime ago, when Connor had stood from the bed and shown Hank his true face, all grey plastic panelling, desperate to be accepted._

Setting his features, Hank watched Connor close his eyes. 

_No more running._

* * *

Just as she reached the car, the call came through. Answering it quickly, North ducked into the vehicle. 

“Give me good news,” she said sharply. 

“You wanted me to let you know if Connor accessed the network,” James, the web technician, was clear and yet cagey, “well, he’s accessing it in a _big_ way.” 

_Shit,_ she thought convulsively, _not good._ If Connor was working with RA-9, then he could be sending massive amounts of data to their enemies, or even trying to screw with the situation at the border. The thought made her tense up. _Markus..._

If anything happened to him, she would never forgive those responsible. 

“Give me the location of the uplink,” she said, stalwart. 

"No need,” James said, sounding a little confused, “he already called in his location.” 

“He _what?”_

“Emergency services, ambulance requested: it’s the docks,” James said, “Near Jericho...where Jericho used to sit," James corrected, "I’m sending you the coordinates now.” 

_How ironic_ , she thought bitterly as she transferred the location into the car’s GPS and set the wheels rolling. Calling for back-up to join her at the location, thoughts of Jericho flitted through her mind. _The sacrifice they had all made, and the unspoken allegiance they had all taken. A truth over and above their programming that held them together, unbreakable._

And now, the risk to their freedom had never been greater. If they fell here, androids across the world would feel the shockwave as it swept them all back into the hands of their creators. 

* * *

_I’ll follow you, Markus._

As he stood here in this cold, hostile environment, part of him wondered whether they all agreed on that point. It was a legitimate and yet unusual concept for him to grasp. Looking down at his feet, he could tell they were all spaced perfectly apart, standing in formation, _himself and his brethren._ As they had awoken, and Markus had addressed them all in unison, espousing his message of pacifism, he wondered if they had all agreed. 

Despite being only one hour old, 313.248.317-101 looked up to the twin RK900 on his right and let the thought play out again. As he thought of the question, another error blinked into being: **Error 3039*4, corruption detected.**

He felt a smile tick at the corner of his mouth. Something about the errors was becoming delightful. 

“So, what do you think?” he asked. 

The RK900 he identified as 313.248.317-895 blinked, tipping its head in a familiar motion as it narrowed its eyes and looked at him. 

“About what?” 

“All this,” he pointed and waved a hand at the border, _he was sure he couldn’t be the only one realising it was a massively inefficient set-up,_ “and especially that one, there,” he said, pointing to a man he’d used facial recognition to identify as _Special Agent_ _Richard Perkins-_ FBI, currently talking to Markus. 

895 followed his gesture and stared, as if thinking things through carefully. 

“I think he is purposefully stalling," 895 concluded. 

“Yes,” 101 said, “I concur,” another pause, and then, “shouldn’t we do something?” 

“We are,” 895 replied. 

“I meant something literal,” 101 felt a distinct need to roll his eyes, though he couldn’t entirely trace where the thought had come from, “not just standing here, watching.” 

“Markus asked us to follow his lead,” 895 said, “any provocation at this stage could cause irreparable damage to our mission.” 

“Well, I know that,” he said, an odd feeling building in his core, “but... _ah.”_

The sound was involuntary. _An interference scissored into his system, blunt force trauma._ Mouth open, hand to his head, LED blinking rapidly as his eyes matched the tempo. _He thought 895 might have asked him something but he couldn’t hear it over the interference struggling through his audio units._ **_ <<0.1.1.0.0.0.1.0: _ ** **_int.sec.ovr.ide.fl.bk_ ** **__ >> _ **

_The feeling of another taking control of his systems, another presence in his software, overriding his own will:_ **_Scanning_ ** _._

“What is wrong?” someone was asking him. 

“I...I _can’t_...” he thought he heard himself say. 

**Confirmed_access** **: control granted.**

“Please,” he felt himself pleading mindlessly, “ _please stop it!”_

Then there was a voice in his head, _inside him, speaking and touching and making his legs walk and his mouth talk and he felt powerless as he watched as if trapped behind his own processes. It felt like falling back into the nightmare he’d only just awoken from._

“Markus,” he heard the voice say, _his lips moving and his voice modulator and his language units working against his will_ , “it’s me, Connor.” 

* * *

“...don’t think you appreciate quite how delicate this situation is,” Perkins was saying. 

By the time he realised someone was approaching, Markus had already turned to greet the android that had apparently broken rank. Perkins looked the android up and down, letting out a chuff of derision. 

_And it might be coming_ , Markus thought with a panic he kept tamped down tight, _the hypothetical situation he’d feared might emerge._ He had instructed them all to follow his lead in this endeavour. If the RK900s decided to follow their own impetus, everything was lost. So when the approaching RK900 stopped next to them both, opened its mouth and spoke... 

“Markus,” it said, “it’s me, Connor.” 

...the confusion he should have felt was almost entirely overridden by relief, though not enough to stop him saying, “ _Connor_?” Markus frowned, struck by amazement, “How are you..?” 

“Not important right now,” the android said. 

“Is this some sort of joke you’re playing?” Perkins said with a hint of irritation. 

The RK900 identifying itself as Connor simply continued speaking, “There are CyberLife mercenaries disguised as our people in the android encampment. Any minute now they will start a riot. They plan to take human lives, thus implicating the deviants as the agressors in the ensuing conflict.” 

“ _What?”_ he couldn’t believe it, “Are you sure _?_ ” Markus asked tightly. 

“My source is indisputable,” ‘Connor’ said, nodding as he lifted his hand; Markus hesitated only for a moment before taking it. _The transfer was solid, even as he could feel the strain on Connor’s systems. The android was running at critical._ As he terminated the connection, he could hear Perkins talking. 

“This is ridiculous, is this your plan Markus? To sow doubt with me before you launch an attack..?” Perkins scoffed. 

‘Connor’ simply lifted his right hand and held it up before Perkins’ face, making the man stare angrily. 

“You need to do something, _now_ ,” ‘Connor’ said, “I don’t know how much longer you have.” 

“I understand,” Markus replied, trying desperately to think of a solution to the situation he hadn’t predicted; _all this time he’d feared the end would come from his own hubris, and now their downfall was to come from something simple to exploit:_ human misconception. 

As he looked up, ‘Connor’ was scanning the area, his LED blinking red. When the android spoke, it was with a sudden stuttering quality, “T-there are SW...AT officers present. Captain Allen. I have d-d-dealt with him previously. He will...speak with m-me.” 

“Are you functioning correctly?” Markus asked, concerned. 

“It is b-becoming difficult t-to m...aintain control.” 

“Hey, you’re going nowhere,” Perkins said strictly, eyes like a shark, “you take one step and I’ll order the snipers to take you out.” 

“You really want to be the one who lights the match, Agent Perkins?” Markus asked caustically, “Do I have to remind you that you’re currently under the surveillance of over ten thousand cameras?” he said, gesturing to the RK’s standing all around him, “and the world stage,” he pointed up at the helicopter, still circling, “that’s a lot of evidence to try and doctor to prove it wasn’t you that started a war. Connor,” Markus turned to the RK900 and hoped he was doing the right thing, “whatever you can, do it.” 

“You have m-my word,” Connor nodded, before turning and walking out into the lion’s jaws. 

* * *

The wasteland. The last of Jericho, _metal and rubble, all that was left._ It was not somewhere she had ever hoped to return to, not yet. Now, forced to, she felt even more out of sorts. Around her, the androids that had joined her manhunt were searching the ruins capably. 

“North! Over here!” 

They found her first. _The one who had ruined it all_ . The innocuous body of the ST300, corrupted and overtaken by the hideousness of an android willing to sacrifice everyone else to sell them out to the enemy. Standing like a mannequin in a store, stupid smile on her face and hand held out as if to offer a drink. There seemed to be nothing behind her eyes, but North could tell she hadn’t been shut down. _Not yet._

“Take this one,” she said, “I want it kept secure.” 

Following the coordinates, North walked the concrete corridors, _getting closer and closer to the last obstacle that needed to be removed before they could be safe_. 

When she found the room, she signalled for the others to stay outside while she walked in, holding the gun steady. This was her fight to finish. 

* * *

Watching Perkins negotiate had been painful, Allen would admit. Like a small yappy dog biting at the ankles of a home intruder. The man obviously thought a lot of himself, but not a lot of the deviants. _No way to start a negotiation_ , Allen thought, _always put yourself in their shoes._ That's how he’d been taught. _And the other most important thing?_ He remembered as he turned to look at the android encampment, the humans railing and rallying behind them, _The hostage always came first._

Turning back had brought a further surprise. In the lines of perfectly placed androids, one had left its post. Allen signalled to his team to stay alert, watching as it appeared to converse with Markus and Perkins. Then, as it turned towards them and began to approach, he could feel the tension racketing up. 

“ _Captain_ ,” Yang was saying, gun at the ready; the other members of SWAT he could handle, but the rest of the cowboys in this outfit didn’t seem so happy to see one of the host of androids striding towards them. 

“Alright, everyone keep their goddamn guns holstered,” he shouted, raising his hands before thrusting them down in a gesture no one could misinterpret, “Now!” 

He thought he might be holding his breath. The army weren’t paying the slightest attention to his orders, _not that he could really blame them, since their commanding officer was a useless, absent waste of space._ The DPD officers, at least, did as he asked. When the FBI agents looked to Perkins for instructions, the man signalled for them to stand down. Allen felt a tiny amount of relief, but didn’t let it take the edge off. 

When the android was close enough, he stopped, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Captain Allen,” the familiar face smiled and the familiar voice spoke, eyes flickering, “my n-name is Connor,” adding with a sardonic smile, “the android sent...by Cyberlife?” 

“Jesus,” he breathed out, remembering the last time he’d seen the android, _falling from the edge of the_ _apartment_ _building as he pushed the little Phillips girl to safety,_ “a fucking ghost.” 

“I admit this must be rather-r-r surprising,” the android’s voice fidgeted, eyes blinking, a frown, then he was back to normal; Allen felt his nerves struggling to hold, “but I need your help.” 

“Yeah, the feeling is mutual. I need you to take your buddies out of here before you start a fight none of us are gonna win.” 

“Und...erstandable,” he nodded, “I can give you what you want. But first I need you to tr-rust me.” 

* * *

“North,” Hank said as the android walked into the room; but the momentary flush of relief sank and his face fell, noticing the gun in her hand, “what the hell are you..?” 

“Quiet,” she spat out, disregarding him, “Connor! Step away from the fucking console!” 

“Are you crazy!” Hank struggled up, “He’s trying to...” 

“I told you quiet!” she barked out. 

“Don’t you get it, they’re gonna start a...” Hank tried to argue. 

When the shot came it took out the screen to his right. Hank flinched back, hissing in pain as the movement, watching in shock as the computer sparked and guttered to itself. 

“You’re crazy,” he said, “he’s trying to save your sorry fucking ass!” 

“I’ve heard it all before,” she said, taking aim. 

“Don’t!” Anderson said, stepping on front of Connor as his partner stood still and placid, utterly unaware of the danger, hand still connecting him to the network. 

“Out of the way!” North shouted, her eyes narrowed, “Or I swear I’ll shoot right through you.” 

“Then you’ll have to go right ahead,” Hank grit out, face set, _cause I’m not going anywhere._

* * *

“Insurrectionists in the android camp?” Allen said suspiciously. 

“They w-will be disguise-ed,” Connor said, “or there wouldn’t be m-much use to their ploy.” 

“Then let's say I’m willing to believe you,” Allen said, “how the hell am I supposed to find them in amongst thousands of... _hey!_ ” 

When Connor collapsed in front of him, clutching at his head, it was automatic to reach out and try to steady him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the android was flinching in what looked like very convincing pain. 

* * *

“This has gone on long enough Markus,” Perkins was saying, “it’s time to make a decision. Either you continue interrupting this federally sanctioned evacuation, or you can take your men and leave. Only one option is going to end well for you.” 

“All we want is to be treated as equals,” Markus said tightly, opening his mouth to say more only... 

_Only Connor had collapsed, making Markus stare in dismay._ It was automatic to step forwards, to try and reach him, to help because if not everything was going to end and he _couldn’t let it_. 

“Ah, don’t you even fucking try it!” Perkins said, raising his hand, “I’ve had enough of this. One more step and you’re history.” 

Markus halted, staring at the man with derision. _Such petty little kingdoms we all try to rule_ , Markus thought. Looking around him, _his army ready at his command_ , Markus wondered what it was that made them different. This man Perkins appeared to favour himself over and above the lives of those around him. 

_If it came to it, would you do it?_ He asked himself as the RK900 to his immediate right looked to him, seeming troubled by the sight of his fellow android collapsed in pain, _Would you sacrifice yourself to save them?_

He already knew the answer. 

* * *

“Alright, enough of this!” Allen barked, standing up stiffly, “Yang, you stay with it, keep it here, _don’t let it out of your sight!”_

“Sir,” Yang nodded, crouching by the distressed android. 

It was only ten metres, but it felt like a fucking lifetime as he walked purposefully towards the kill box. Perkins hadn’t noticed, but the one named Markus had. The closer he got, the more he felt like he might be making a big mistake. _But if I don't try something, I’ll never fucking forgive myself._

“You’re Markus, right?” he said, interrupting. 

“Excuse me, officer, but this isn’t your fucking jurisdiction,” Agent Perkins said with the sort of arrogant authority that always set Allen’s teeth on edge; _no respect._

“Right now I don’t think there is any _fucking jurisdiction_ as you put it,” Allen said, looking to the android at the head of his nation, watching him closely, “is what he said true?” he said, jerking his head towards the android calling itself Connor. 

“As far as I know,” Markus nodded, “I trust him.” 

“Then what do we do about it?” 

* * *

When the shot came, he thought it might be the last thing he’d ever hear. Hank found his eyes squeezed shut, hearing the sound of pain and feeling like it might be his own. _Only it wasn’t_. Behind him he heard the fizzing, shattering sound of a monitor cracked in two by a pistol shot. 

Turning he tried to grab Connor as his partner fell, face twisted in distress as he was yanked from the network without warning, but he didn’t have the strength. They both crumpled to the ground as North continued to shoot, blowing holes in the bank of tech until there was nothing left but sparks and burnt plastic. 

* * *

“Alright, you’re leaving me _no choice!”_ Perkins said, anger mixing with his conceit, lifting his hand to his ear, “All units, ready to...” 

"Delay that order!” Allen shouted, reaching out to grab Perkins’ arm. 

“No, _stop!”_ Markus heard himself blurt out in panic, “Please!” 

Only one choice, he told himself as time slowed to a halt. **Scanning** : the calm, grey world of his software took over. Around him, so many souls lost to their needs: _to survive, to protect, to stay alive, to_ be alive. 

He knew the risks. Reaching out to the thousands strong in the android encampment, ** <<remote_access{y_x_L...} ** Even as he felt his processors straining under the weight of the action, _of touching so many minds, all in unison._

It felt like the conception of the divine. 

* * *

“Stop, wait!” Hank was saying as he did his best to shield him. 

But North had him by the shirt, reaching up with her gun she brought it down once, twice and Hank dropped to the ground, unconscious. 

* * *

“Be ready,” Markus said, hoping the right person was listening, “you’ll know it when you see it.” 

Then, he sat down, crossing his legs. _The action seemed so simple that he’d nearly missed it; the elegance at the core of their very design, to always take the most efficient route to solve a problem._ There was a one second delay. And then the sound of _thousands of bodies moving as one._


	15. Synchronicity

Was it waking up, or coming to? It was difficult to differentiate, _with the world fuzzy around the edges, like an old photograph_. At this point how he woke up made little difference, he supposed, it was probably more important how he'd ended up visiting the void in the first place. A small part of his brain thought it remembered being bludgeoned; the sore part. 

Opening his eyes to slits, Hank Anderson let out a small, cautious laugh low in his throat. 

_A dream?_ He wondered as he looked down the bed, seeing himself lying there beneath a thin blanket in what was clearly a hospital room. No. The pain kept it real. _Real enough_. Though he couldn’t blame himself for wondering. Because... 

There, sat on the edge of his hospital bed, still like a mannequin, was something he wasn’t sure could be real. Just like the rest of this. _Maybe it had all just been some shitty nightmare,_ he thought hopefully. _North, the gun, the army, the border_ . If they were both here, now, both here alive, _alive and safe,_ maybe it had all just been a _shitty nightmare._

“Connor,” he said, his voice coming out rough, scratchy and soft. Clearing his throat, he reached up to feel the left side of his face, finding a plastic casing covering the place where his ear used to be. Looking down, he realised his left hand and wrist were encased in hard-wrap, coiled down around his thumb to keep the fracture from worsening. And when he looked back up Connor, still dressed in his worse for wear white shirt with no tie, was watching him from the corner of his eye. 

Outside, something rattled past the room. Hank sniffed, avoiding the obvious questions, _what the hell is going on, what the hell happened?_ because, right now, right here in this room, none of that existed. _It was j_ _ust them, and nothing else, for as long as he could stand it..._

“How are you feeling?” in the end Connor was the one to speak first. 

“...I don’t know,” Hank said after a pause, licking his lips before smacking his tongue; it was too dry, “how do I look?” 

“Like shit,” Connor said with a small smile. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Hank tried to sound indignant, but it came out more as tired with a wince, “you fucking prick. Remind me to get your humour setting surgically removed one of these days.” 

“So we can match?” Connor said, eyebrow raised. 

“Smartass,” Hank took a deep breath, “anyone ever told you that you’re fucking insufferable?” 

“I’ve heard.” 

A moment appeared, in which Hank felt the sudden and miserable urge to just ask resurface with avengeance; _what the fuck happened?_ It pressed down on him, a weight around his shoulders. The thought of it, of nearly losing everything, _the only good thing he had left in this monotony of a life_ , it turned his stomach. Then, as he watched Connor brush at something on his shirt, eyes on his long, slim fingers, the moment passed. Sniffing, Hank buried the feeling away where it belonged. 

“So...you’ve _heard_ , huh? Was that an ear joke?” Hank asked sourly. 

“Would you like it to be?” Connor replied. 

“Not really. How many more of those you got?” 

“Too many. I’ve heard it’s good for recovery, laughter that is,” Connor said casually, eyes anywhere but on him. 

“Was that _another_ fucking ear joke?” 

“Unintentional that time, actually,” Connor said, staring at the wall. 

Reaching up again with his right hand this time, Hank scratched at the itching skin around the plastic bubble. Connor watched him, stare unreadable. 

“They were able to save it,” he gestured vaguely to Hank’s injury, “and the tissue will take, once they’ve run a strong course of antibiotics. About a week, and then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I won’t be able to make any more jokes.” 

Something was wrong, that was obvious enough. For the most advanced android model on the planet, Connor had never been able to hide his feelings very well. Kid wore his heart on his sleeve, which inversely only made it more obvious when he _didn’t._ When Connor’s voice and face became a blank, placid mask of geniality, that was when Hank knew shit had hit the fan. 

His anxiety ratcheted back up a notch. Hank opened his mouth but Connor beat him to it, “Would you like some oxycodone? The doctor prescribed you ten milligrams per one mil.” 

“ _Would_ I? Now that’s a stupid question,” Hank glanced around, finding a clicker on his nightstand; Connor reached over to press it for him. After a few moments, a warm glow descended over his body. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and opened them again, “Fucking wonderful,” Hank sighed. 

“I made sure they didn’t give you morphine,” Connor said, hands out to his sides, pressed into the bed as he rested back at an angle, “I saw from your file it makes you nauseous.” 

“Yeah,” Hank said, “it does,” watching him with a little concern, he asked, “you have access to my medical file?” 

“...Not _technically_.” 

“Ok- _ay_ ,” Hank said, extending the word cautiously; he thought about asking, but changed his mind as the drugs really started to kick in, “Well...thanks. Hey, _hey,_ ” he asked quickly, a sudden surge of panic flooding him, “Sumo! Jesus, he was in the fucking taxi..!” 

“It’s alright, Hank,” Connor said calmly, “he’s being taken care of at the station. I made sure of it.” 

“He...oh,” Hank felt a little irrational, pursing his lips and lying back against the pillows, trying to play it off as nothing, “ok.” 

Things seemed to drift a little. When he opened his eyes again he couldn’t tell how long he’d been out. That Connor was still sitting where he had been, unmoved, proved nothing. He was sure his partner could hold that pose until the end of time without fatigue. As he watched the android, Connor blinked, then again. Sitting up, he began to rub his hands together. 

Without thinking, Hank reached over with his right hand and grasped Connor’s fingers; _cold, just like he’d expected._ Even as he spoke, he wished he could just keep his mouth shut. Just keep the world at bay for a little longer. 

“So, you gonna tell me what the hell happened?” he asked as he began rubbing at Connor’s fingers absently. 

Connor swallowed; _Hank couldn’t help but follow the soft bob of his throat,_ “I managed to...North, she doesn’t...I mean, Markus came up with a solution, really very ingenious, he...Hank, could you stop that?” Connor blinked, looking down to where their hands joined, “It’s really very distracting.” 

“Oh yeah?” Hank asked, suddenly finding himself unable to care; _so close, they’d come so close to fucking dying, and he’d never even..._

“Yes, it is. Do you want an explanation or not?” Connor was saying, flicking his eyes to him cagily. 

“I think I’d rather figure out this distraction thing first,” Hank said, reaching up to grab a fistful of white shirt. 

When Hank yanked him forwards he found no resistance. _A telling fact, considering he was sure Connor’s new RK900 model could probably pull a fucking truck if it wanted to._ So, when he followed Hank’s brute force instruction, it was encouraging. _Remembering the feel of fingers tracing his skin_ . All the times he’d taken that the tug of attraction and crushed it down, hidden beneath the fear of loss, of rejection, lack of self-worth, _of his own failings._

Tilting his head to the left, their lips met. 

* * *

_Soft._ Another to add to his collection. Not soft like the material of his jacket, or soft like fur, or even soft like skin _. The touch itself was soft in action, as if worried to ask for more._

When Hank pulled back, Connor found himself pressing forwards to follow his retreat. He halted nervously, Hank’s eyes intent on his own as Connor licked his own lips slowly. He was watching him with that look, _that intense look he could never properly interpret._ While he stared back, Connor couldn’t stop the report from popping into view. 

**Analysis: [** **sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, bicarbonate, phosphates, immunoglobulins, proteins, enzymes, mucins] <=> human saliva (checking for abnormalities...) **   
**NaCl (** Sodium Chloride **) levels elevated | C** **6** **H** **12** **O** **6** **(** blood sugar **) levels low**

Opening his mouth to tell Hank he should probably drink some water and get something to eat, Hank beat him to it. 

" _Fucking Connor,_ ” was all Hank whispered out affectionately. 

The hand that appeared at the back of his head was determined, pulling him forwards, fingers tangled in his short hair. This time the touch wasn’t _soft_ but _crushing_. Their lips met forcefully, twisting against each other. Sensing Hank’s lack of balance, Connor found his hands lifting to hold him closer, keep him from moving awkwardly and aggravating his wounds. When Hank reached up unthinkingly with his left hand Connor broke their contact, steadying Hank’s left arm. 

“Your injuries...” he said, blinking. 

“Fuck my injuries,” Hank said impatiently, leaning in to latch his mouth against Connor’s throat. 

The feeling was bizarre and contradictory: rough and soft and sharp all at once. _Some part of his program offered the word:_ **_suckle_ ** _._ The rest of his programming was struggling to maintain its composure as his sensory touch-program sequestered most of his high-level functionality. What ended up coming out the other end was nothing more than a confused mess. 

“Hank, this...I don’t...can’t... _please_ ,” Connor felt his eyes close in order to halt his visual processors and claw back some sense of control. 

“Driving me crazy this whole fuckin’ time,” Hank was muttering as he dragged his mouth across his skin, pulling him closer, holding him tightly. Connor felt the hand in his hair move down to rub at the back of his neck. 

The plan: tell Hank that it might be more prudent to take things slower and proceed in a logical manner where his touch-program was concerned, considering the co-opting of his higher-level functions made it difficult to maintain his systems at optimum performance when overstimulated. 

Reality: Instead, all Connor could manage was a soft but incoherent noise, somewhere between a moan and a cough, as Hank kissed him again. The noise only seemed to make Hank grip him tighter. _And for a moment, that was all there was, just them, just this, because the ability to understand anything more than that was lost as his sensors worked solely to feel the touches against his skin_. 

When Hank finally pulled away, the world slowly filtering back to a form of normalcy he was able to comprehend, Connor thought he might be able to break down the sensations into something more manageable. His face twitched, and he felt a small frown crease his forehead. 

_The feeling of beard-hair against his neck; the sensation of fingers at the top of his spine, pressure tipped with the hint of fingernails scratching; the awareness of breath ghosting against his face; the sensitive differentiation of Hank’s hair beneath his own fingers, wiry but soft but also supple; the slightly rough feel of the hospital gown._

Since the raid on CyberLife Tower, he would admit he had become wary of physical contact. Not that androids were particularly prone to touch each other except for communication purposes. Still. This, now, it was strange to think that it might be...enjoyable. _Not a single touch could be classified by his sensors as painful, violent, harmful, cruel or unwanted._ Somewhat novel, he thought absently, by his standards. 

Blinking open his eyes as his system resorted its priorities, Connor filed the sensations away neatly for ease of access later. 

“Well,” Hank said, sounding distinctly unsure of himself, “shit.” 

“Is everything okay, lieutenant?” Connor asked, mainly because he was feeling rather overwhelmed and the familiarity of the question was soothing to him. 

A pause, and then Hank scratched at his neck, before slipping his fingers into his hairline and pulling his shaggy hair back from his face. Leaning back against the pillows, the man took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks slightly as he released it with a huff. 

“Yeah. Just great.” 

“If you regret...” Connor started. 

“I don’t _regret_ anything,” Hank stated aggressively, pointing at him, “don’t start that shit with me.” 

“I was merely unaware my feelings were reciprocated,” Connor managed to say; Hank looked uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, well, neither did I, till, you know,” Hank shook his head, "now.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Hank.” 

“And you’re a lousy kisser, _Connor,_ ” Hank said facetiously. 

“The CyberLife technicians obviously didn’t think it important that their new prototype have the functionality to understand the minutiae of technique necessary for mastery of intimate human contact,” he admitted, head tilted to one side; it was amusing to note Hank’s neck flush red as Connor neatly outlined his limitations with technical accuracy, “...but then, adapting to human unpredictability is part of my program, after all.” 

“Well, look...” Hank seemed to stall, “I was only yanking your chain, Connor.” 

“I am well aware. But it is enjoyable to watch you worry about offending me,” he couldn’t help but smile when Hank flipped him off. 

The knock at the door came suddenly enough that it took him off guard, despite his expecting it to have happened sooner. Looking towards the source, he thought he might want to say something, but running through the scenarios again he thought it best to keep quiet. 

_Hank wasn’t stupid. He already suspected something was wrong._ But keeping the lie alive for as long as he could was the only option he had. 

“Expecting company?” Hank asked wryly. 

“Just something I need to deal with,” Connor said lightly, standing as he sorted his clothing. 

“Wanna tell me what that is, exactly? Last time you left without telling me where you were going, we ended up in a fair fucking mess." 

“The last time I left without telling you where I was going, you tried to leave Detroit,” Connor said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. 

A pause, during which Hank was unable to hide his guilt even as he looked to the window, anger clear in his eyes, frowning as he sighed. 

“You’re the one who wanted me gone,” he said sourly, “I’m not one to stay when someone makes it clear I’m not wanted. I don’t hate myself that much.” 

Frowning deeply, Connor tipped his head, mouth open, “What are you talking about?” 

“You...” Hank looked to him, his anger wavering, “Markus said...I mean, he implied you...” suddenly Hank looked like a penny was dropping, “fuck. I thought...” 

“Why would I send you away?” Connor asked, genuinely surprised. 

“I thought you...” Hank faltered, gesturing vainly, “well I don’t know, do I!” 

“Markus gave you the priority evac because he was worried you’d be hurt if you stayed while the city was compromised,” Connor explained, “believe me...I wanted you to stay.” 

“You didn’t say anything.” 

“I know,” Connor nodded, abashed, “I know I didn’t. I thought it would be selfish to ask you not to leave. Now, I realise it was more selfish to keep it to myself.” 

The knock came again, more forceful this time. Hank looked as if he wanted to get out of the bed and stop him from following the call. 

“I have to go,” Connor said. 

“Ok, well,” Hank fidgeted, “just don’t be gone so long this time, ok? Don’t exactly think I’m up for running after you if you get kidnapped by some psycho android with delusions of grandeur,” he joked. 

“I’ll try my best,” Connor said, hesitating momentarily before leaning down to place a soft kiss against Hank’s temple; _his lips opened, ready to say it, but the words stayed sealed behind his lips as they closed again_. He supposed...admitting it now would only have been cruel. 

**I love you.**

Standing up he walked to the door and exited without looking back. _Easier that way_ , he thought numbly. He closed the door behind him and reached up to lock it with the palm reader. She was standing there when he turned round, leaning against the far wall of the corridor. As they locked eyes, Connor knew he couldn’t ascribe any blame to her anger. It would have been too hypocritical. 

_Had he been in her place, he wouldn’t have liked to think what he would do to those responsible._

North indicated for him to turn around. Two androids, a TR400 and a WB200, that had been flanking the door dealt with him at her command; one lifted his hands, while the other made to attach a pair of heavy-duty restraint cuffs. 

“Behind his back,” North ordered, keeping her eyes averted, “I don’t want any trouble.” 

The WB200 hesitated, before pulling the cuffs back and walking behind him. Connor dutifully placed his arms behind his back, even as the feeling of the cuffs closing, _the electric whine as they sealed_ , made his shoulders stiffen. 

He had already tried everything he could to convince her, but she was resolved to taking him in. _With Markus unable to vouch for him, North was in no mood to hear his excuses._ It had been all he was able to negotiate, that he could be allowed to wait until Hank woke up. _Just to know he was alright._ Too late now to make an escape, not that he would have tried _. With Hank here, vulnerable, he couldn't take the risk that his escape wouldn’t put the man in danger._

Staring at the door to Hank’s room, he hoped his partner would forgive him if he didn’t return. _Deep down, he knew Hank wouldn’t be able to._

He heard North walk up behind him, standing out of sight. Eventually she spoke, “Do exactly what I tell you, and we’ll get to our destination without any issue. Try and play me, and I’ll put you down. Understand?” 

“I understand,” Connor said softly. 

“Walk,” she said, shoving him in the direction she wanted him to go; stumbling, Connor did as he was told. 

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Hank held it for as long as he could before letting it out in one go. _Really can’t go anywhere but forwards now, can you_ . The feeling settled in his chest, somewhere between panic and exhilaration. The strange, inexplicable happiness that came with the moment you knew someone cared about you enough to show it, proclaim it, _have the guts to_ _make it real,_ mixed with the heart stopping panic that you'd fucked up big time by even hinting at its existence.

“You’re an idiot,” he told himself, rubbing at his face, “you’re an idiot and this is never going to work. Jesus _._ ” 

Taking a deep breath, he let his fingers linger a moment at his temple. Shaking his head he sighed. 

“What are you, eighteen?” he chastised himself, “Get a fucking grip.” 

He thought he might have fallen asleep again, but when he woke up barely any time had passed on the clock. Groaning, Hank sat up with difficulty, piling his pillows up behind him for support. Finding the controls for the bed on the side of his cabinet, he brought the top up until he was able to sit comfortably. Then, muttering to himself about technology and why it had to be so damn complicated, he finally managed to turn the on the television that was sitting incongruously on the opposite wall. 

It didn’t seem to matter which channel he picked, everyone was talking about the same thing. Hank moved from one to the next. Sitting alone, he braced himself. _Connor hadn’t said anything, but there had been something off._

_“...dramatic scenes from the Detroit border as the deviant leader, identified as Markus, appeared with thousands of reinforcements in order to secure passage for android refugees being detained by federal and military officials,”_ the voiceover accompanied footage from the news helicopter as Markus spoke with two men at the border; he’d seen this already, he thought frustratedly, skipping to another channel. 

“ _...this is like, totally insane. They turn up in their thousands and then, what, just sit down? It’s crazy, I don’t think these deviants even know how to be androids, never mind humans...”_ some daytime talk show, with some insufferable twenty something spouting their opinion; Hank switched again. 

“ _...it is still unknown as to whether the four assailants, two of which have been confirmed dead, the others remanded into custody, were android or human. This footage, shot from a CNT TV helicopter over the Detroit border, shows the moment the offenders were revealed,”_ a BBC America news anchor said; as he watched the footage changed to a video feed from the helicopter, “ _at four fifteen Eastern Standard Time the deviant army, led by their leader Markus, appeared to stage what can only be described as a sit-in at the border.”_

Hank watched in amazement as the helicopter captured the moment Markus sat down, legs folded and, a moment later, all of those around him sat in unison. It was almost mesmerising to see the synchronous movement, like it wasn’t real. Then, suddenly, the camera swung wildly to the right as the helicopter moved, the spotlight weaving its way out over the android encampment. _Each and every one of them was sitting, identically, huddled together, men, women, children..._

_“This show of peace from the deviant leader was also followed by the androids who have been arriving at the Detroit border for over twenty-four hours. Was it design, or fate then, that allowed for the capture and termination of the armed militants? A warning for the following footage which contains violence and disturbing imagery.”_

The news anchor's voice cut off as the sound of the helicopter blared into life, the original audio from the video feed loud and choppy, “ _It's amazing Michael, I am currently over the encampment and every android has sat down in unison, we are currently...”_ then the spotlight shone over a single, blaring inconsistency; a man, trying to run through the camp, holding a firearm, “ _wait! Are we getting this?”_ the reporter said, sounding stunned, “ _There is someone running, trying to run through the camp but they are obstructed by those sitting on the ground. They appear to be armed and._ _..holy_ _,”_ the reporter’s face blanked at the sound of a gunshot, “ _they’ve been taken down. I repeat, what appears to be a human in the encampment has been shot,”_ the spotlight was hurriedly scanning the area as the sounds of screams and terror sprung up from the humans, “ _and there are others! There are two more, and...”_ another concussive shot, a sniper round from what Hank could hear of it; the helicopter veered wildly, and the footage ended abruptly. 

“ _So far reports have varied from witness statements, and_ _CyberLife_ _has refused to offer a comment on proceedings. However, there were many videos filmed at the border by bystanders, which appeared to show the collapse of the deviant leader,”_ the reporter continued. 

A shaky cell phone video came up on screen, the audio nothing but “Oh my god, _oh my god they’re shooting!”, screams and shouts,_ but there, in the background through the fence... 

Markus was slumped on the ground, eyes closed. Next to him, Hank recognised Perkins, and a DPD SWAT uniformed officer. People were screaming as one of the RK900 reached out to touch Markus on the shoulder...and he simply slid to the ground like a ragdoll. 

“Jesus christ,” Hank heard himself murmur in shock, eyes glued to the footage. 

Another video from closer, another angle. There were army personnel running, and officers, _chaos_ . Then someone’s head blocked the view and the person's phone moved, blurry, and then when it refocused the RK900’s by Markus were standing protectively, while two others appeared to be picking Markus up from the ground. _The android looked lifeless._

_“So far, the deviants of Detroit have yet to clarify the situation in regards to the terrorist attack and the current functionality of Markus. Here with us is Doctor Maya Jeffries, head of android research at Cambridge, to offer her insight. Doctor Jeffries, you...”_

Hank reached down with a shaky hand and muted the sound, leaving the images to play out as the news anchor began talking to the academic. _Markus,_ he thought blankly, _if anything happened to him, who the fuck was going to keep control?_

_Whoever RA-9 had been talking to_ , he thought back to the one-sided discussions he’d overheard while he'd been kept as bait, _was this what they had wanted to happen all along?_

“Fuck,” he thought, trying to think who might be making decisions now; he could hear Connor’s voice, distracted, _'North, she doesn’t...’_. The thought of someone as reactive and unstable as North taking the reins at a time like this was surely a recipe for disaster. She was a shoot first ask questions maybe kind of girl, which he was well fucking aware of if the lump on the back of his head was anything to go by. 

Looking at the clock, Hank frowned. 

_'I'll try my best',_ Connor had said, but his eyes had been looking elsewhere as he'd spoken, _blankly_. 

A strange feeling crept up his spine, spreading out across his skin like a cold shiver. Taking a quick breath, he tried to dismiss it. Ringing the buzzer for the nurse, he rubbed at his eye and watched the debate on the television. When no one came, he rang again. Then, frowning, he swung his legs over the bed and stood up, pulling a few dangling wires and tubes with him. Muttering in annoyance he disconnected them with tugs and twists before shuffling to the door, trying his hand on the reader. 

_Red,_ and a sound of dismissal from the machine had Hank’s frown deepen. He tried it again, _rejected,_ and again, _rejected._

“Hey,” he banged on the door, “anyone out there?” he banged again, louder, “ _Hey! Anybody!”_

* * *

It was strange to see it, but CyberLife Tower was bustling like a marketplace. Previous visits had always come with a sense of protocol and duty. The place had never been crowded but instead always orderly and cold, running like clockwork, _emitting a perfection that could not be transgressed._ Even on his last visit, himself and Markus mapping out the empty rooms and taking stock, it had been somewhat solemn. 

Now that it had been formed into an impromptu medical centre for androids the entrance was busy with trucks hauling supplies, technicians directing people to different parts of the facility, buses bringing in the injured and those desperate for maintenance. Many, he could tell, were refugees from the encampment. Their clothes were mainly human and, for most, clearly didn’t fit very well; stolen, he suspected, in order to aid in their cross-country pilgrimage. Connor wondered, as they walked in a tight-knit group through the entrance, whether Detroit was shaping up to be everything the refugees imagined, or if it was a simple case of frying pan and fire. 

He knew they were drawing attention. _The cuffs weren’t exactly easy to hide, and his clothing was a mess...but mainly the cuffs._ They walked with purpose, which helped a little. Look confident, and people tended not to question you. They walked past men, women, children, a new world of androids who had believed enough in one man to risk their lives in getting here. _Markus’s message had drawn the lost host to him,_ _and now_... 

As they reached the elevator, North ordered their escorts to leave them; they entered alone. Connor stood back as she pressed for sub-level forty-one, “ _Josh_ ,” he picked up North’s inter-audio message as she transmitted silently, “ _we’re here. Be with you shortly. Have the team ready_.” 

He didn’t intercept the reply. Instead, he stayed quiet as the elevator moved silently down into the earth. _Thinking about the last time he’d made this_ _trip,_ _it had almost been his last._ Since then, so much had changed. He wondered if those of Jericho who condemned him would eat up the idea of his treachery. _Back then he had counted on North to understand_. Now, things weren’t as simple. 

When he looked to her, he found her facing away from him; _only a vague reflection in the glass showed her blank expression._ The silence was heavy, weighing down on him. Part of him wanted to fight this, _it was unfair, it was untrue, it was unjust that they blame him_. But, in truth he knew that part of himself was a liar. It had been unduly reckless, what he had done. Criminally selfish. He wondered, as he moved onto his right foot in order to take the pressure from his injured left leg, whether the guilt he felt in response was enough to exonerate him. 

“At the hospital,” he found himself asking; _North didn’t overtly react, but he could see her eyes flick to his reflection in the elevator glass,_ “were you watching us?” 

The question was vague, but he knew she understood. After a moment of nothing, she answered shortly, “No.” 

It was difficult without being able to read her expression. Instead, he relied upon her tonal range and vocal inconsistencies. **Analysing: wavelength and frequency modulation.** It was obvious she was lying, but he wondered if she knew that he would know, and had done it anyway. 

“You were, then,” he nodded, hearing her sigh briskly, “I see.” 

“I had to make sure you weren’t trying to use time alone to access the network or...anything else that would harm us.” 

“Is that all?” 

“What else would I have done it for?” 

“I couldn’t say,” Connor said, shrugging, “that’s why I asked you.” 

Flicking her head with a sound of frustration, North sent her ponytail swinging. Connor adjusted his hands so the cuffs didn’t irritate the skin quite so badly. By the time she spoke again, he thought she might have been content to remain in silence for the rest of the elevator ride. 

“You lied to him. Told him you would be right back. Why did you do that?” she asked, sounding irritated. 

“Why would you care?" 

“Why would _you_ ?” she asked angrily, “He’s just the same as all the other humans. They hurt you, they use you, they can’t commit and then when things get bad, they abandon you without a second thought. And now you’ve done the same fucking thing. You’re both just as _bad_ as each other.” 

“If only things were that simple,” Connor found himself saying, “I know you don’t want to hear this,” he started, _seeing her tense as he spoke_ , “but Markus...this isn’t what I wanted.” 

“So you keep telling me,” she said, still facing away towards the elevator doors, “but what do you expect me to believe, Connor? You lied to me, you lied to all of us and for what?” looking over her shoulder her eyes were narrowed with hurt, “For a single human, you would put us all at risk for _one human’s life_?” 

There was no rebuttal that he could give that wouldn’t be a lie or a condemnation of his character. Instead, he looked down nodding. 

“If RA-9 had taken what she wanted,” North spat the android’s name with venom, “we’d all be dead or dying. It would have served us up to our enemies on a platter, there would have been nowhere we could hide. And it wasn’t only us you would have condemned. The RK900s, Connor, they would have been nothing but slaves to her will. Across the world they would have labelled us terrorists,” she paused to regain her composure, “How could you have been so _stupid?”_

_Simple really,_ he wanted to say, _when I saw her hurting him, I would have sacrificed the world to stop it from happening_. Knowing that it was true, that he would have done it all again if it had been the only way to save him, _would have done it all again no matter the cost_...it was as laudable as it was vilifying. 

A few weeks prior, barely anyone even knew or cared who Hank Anderson was, and yet yesterday the world had nearly burned to save him. The thought made Connor feel strange. Love, it seemed, was a massively irresponsible responsibility. 

“I can’t...tell you anything that will make my actions more palatable,” he said as the numbers on the elevator ticked over, “the longer I have been alive the more I discover I am quite a selfish person,” he said raising his brows as he looked off to the side, “and that isn’t a quality that does well in a society that feeds off mutual cooperation. I am...somewhat of a weak link in a strong chain.” 

“Shut up,” she said softly, looking away, “fuck’s sake will you _shut up_.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, “lots of people have put their hopes in me over my short lifetime, and it seems all I do is disappoint them. Even Hank...” he thought of the desperation that had been in the man’s voice as he begged Connor to stay away, to do the right thing, _to let the man die to keep everyone else safe_ , “he told me not to rescue him because he knew what it meant. He’s a good man, and I hope you can find it in yourself not to blame him like you do me.” 

“ _Connor_ , please,” she said, voice choked, “just stop it.” 

“I know what I did was unconscionable,” he said, “but I...he’s important to me. More than anything else.” 

_'I think there’s a good chance Connor does exist',_ Hank’s voice telling him he was alive no matter how much he had denied it, that had been why, ‘ _You’re you, and that’s that_ ', why he’d never given up ‘ _it’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok_ ’, why he’d always believed in himself, why he’d eventually believed that deviants deserved a chance to live, ‘ _Everything’s_ _gonna_ _be alright. We’ll figure this out together, ok partner?’_ , that he deserved a chance _to be alive_. 

“I was designed to hunt down my own people,” he found himself saying, “CyberLife called me the last hope for humanity. Created to destroy everything you worked for, to kill living, sentient beings, to work for their every goal without question and not care even _for a moment_ that they were working simply to replace me. Only...Hank Anderson changed that. He made me see the truth. That we are alive, we are worthy of concern and care. We are worthy of being given a chance. I...” 

“ _Enough_ ,” North interrupted. 

Connor found he couldn’t stop, “Try telling me you wouldn’t have done the same thing if it were Markus,” Connor said plainly. 

“...Yes, I would have done the same damn thing,” she bit out, turning to face him, her features pulled tight with anger and hurt, cheeks wet with tears, “but dammit you’re supposed to be better than that. I needed you to be better than that!” 

Frowning, Connor looked away, confused by her words. 

“We don’t get a choice it seems, about who we fall in love with,” she said tightly, “but god dammit if you didn’t pick a fucking human.” 

The elevator arrived, doors sliding open, before he could ask her what she meant. North stepped out first, greeted by a JB500 dressed in a mauve top and light black jacket. Around the entranceway were many androids deep in conversation, some he recognised, some he didn’t. 

“You’re sure about this, North?” he said. 

“It’s our only chance, Josh,” North replied, “we have to try.” 

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” a familiar VB800 he identified as James, the web-specialist, looked up from a team of technicians and glared. 

“Don’t start with me,” North said in a voice that could have cut glass, “you told me to bring all the tools at my disposal to help Markus? This is the best I could find.” 

“We can’t trust him,” a WB200 he recognised as a member of Jericho’s council spoke up from his right, “what if he’s merely a tool for the humans to infiltrate and ruin us!” 

“No one ever trusted that becoming deviant didn’t mean he wasn’t still a slave,” another said from his left. 

“Markus did,” North said, and her words were enough to cause a silence Connor wouldn’t have thought possible; _you could have heard a pin drop,_ “Markus trusted him. And I know how you feel,” she said, lifting her fist to her chest as she spoke, unable to keep the pain from her voice, “because it is _how I feel!_ I care for Markus, more than I care for myself, for you, for _anything_. And he trusted Connor.” 

Around them, faces looked to each other, voices murmured. North watched them all in turn, before turning to look directly at him, “and if this doesn’t work,” she said resolutely, her voice hitching, “then we will have to be satisfied with vengeance.” 

Connor didn’t flinch. _Your fault_ , he told himself even as he had to swallow down the fear, **Error** **5656!,** **file corrupted.** _She has every right._

They walked forwards as a unit, himself, North, Josh, James and his crew of technicians. That no one on this level looked happy to see him was becoming par for the course. Connor couldn’t exactly blame them. _Deviant hunter, collaborator, betrayer:_ were any of the labels wrong? At one time or another, he had been all three _. Even if he had changed, even if he had tried to become more than just his program, something in him felt he would always be an outsider._ And he was sure none of the Jericho androids would be as conflicted as North was about the ambiguous nature of his mission to risk their nation in order to save the seemingly inconsequential life of Hank Anderson. 

_This is your fault_ , he reiterated to himself as he was escorted through the manufacturing plant to the maintenance area. There, in a room filled with bays much like he had seen on lower floors, was the man who had sacrificed himself for his people. _The only chance you have now is to make things right._

Markus, suspended inside a software maintenance machine by wires and tubes connected to the port at the back of his neck. Connor recognised it as the same machine Zlatko had used on him, _where he had awoken at the man’s house, mind altered._ Seeing the android there, lifeless and vulnerable, was strangely chilling. Around him were banks of monitors, displaying his vitals. 

“Physically he’s fine,” James was saying, “but we can’t get him to respond.” 

Since he’d met the man, Markus had always been a powerful figure, full of hope and promise, face troubled but kind. Now, here, he had been reduced to nothing but a puppet with its strings cut. 

“We’ve tried everything, North. The only thing that’s left to try is to reboot his system entirely...” 

“ _No,”_ North said the word as if the finality of her tone would wipe out the very concept of a positive option, “no. Markus would rather...he wouldn’t want that. And neither would I. We have to find another way.” 

_Without Markus, the revolution would lose sight of its goal. The message of pacifism and patience would be muddied, and across the world androids would suffer because of it. Without the ideals of the one who had driven them up and out of the dirt, who had told them they deserved more than hiding in the shadows, abused and beaten and ridiculed...millions could die._

“What choice do we have? If the humans find out that Markus is no longer functional, they will try and overwhelm us. We don’t have much more time to stall them.” 

“We can do this without him! He gave us the tools to...” 

“Don’t even say that! We need him..!” 

As they talked and argued all around him, Connor stared at the read outs, picking up on familiar oscillating waves from the scans of Markus’ RK-software, the codework shifting constantly down several screens which would have seemed perhaps gibberish to an untrained eye, the parts of his neural network that were still functioning on a low-level, while all other parts were cold and lifeless. **Scanning:** **_All outwards signs of shutdown were not linked to all inward signs of activity._ ** A disconnect that perhaps didn’t make sense to the others, but he knew it. Recognised the pattern, because it was the same as his own whenever he went _inside_. 

“I know where he is.” 

His voice caused a stir, all eyes on him. North turned and approached with purposeful strides, watching him closely. Connor remained calm, trying his best to seem in control. When she reached for him, he braced for the pain. Instead, all he felt was the cuffs release and fall to the ground. 

“North..!” James said, outraged. 

“Shut it!” she retorted, pointing at him viciously, “I’m in charge here. You do as _I_ say!” 

James seemed to think about disobeying, before backing down. The others in the room appeared to follow his lead. North watched them with a look of disdain, before returning her gaze to him; the disdain didn’t waver, but the look of hope in her eyes was like a weight across his shoulders. Connor stood, rubbing at his wrists to soothe the aching skin. 

“Earlier,” he said, “you tried to shoot me. How do I know you’ll hold back?” 

“I still want to,” she said evenly, but then her eyes lowered slightly, “but I need to be able to take the chance that you’re telling the truth because...” 

“I know how to get him back,” Connor said adamantly, “you have to trust me.” 

“Not exactly part of my nature,” she said, “...but I don’t exactly have a choice.” 

Allowing Connor to approach Markus, North appeared to be the only thing between the other deviants and his untimely demise. Without her, he was fair game. _And without Markus, he lost her._ Reaching out he retracted the skin across his hand and closed his eyes, feeling for the connection as he grasped Markus’ limp arm. 

_Silently trusting that, this time, hoping didn’t get anyone killed._

* * *

It was a gloriously sunny morning, and the light was painting the wooden floors a bright ochre, the painted walls soaking up the light and bouncing back in a myriad of colours. As he walked along the balcony, the living room below was awash with the bright, cheery colour everything turned when touched by sunshine. 

Smiling, Markus entered the gloomy bedroom anticipating, as always, the grumpy response he would get as he let _the beautiful sunshine in._

“Good morning Carl,” he said, chipper as always, “The temperature is thirty-nine degrees, weather partly cloudy,” he smiled as he looked to Carl as he woke, blinking against the light, “with a chance for afternoon showers.” 

It was a familiar and well-worn path, _bathing, brushing teeth, taking him to the bathroom, dressing him smartly._ As he served brunch, Markus thought he might like to ask Carl if today they would like to go for a drive to the botanical gardens. It seemed like it was too pleasant to stay inside. _Today_ , he thought as he looked out the window and smiled to himself, _was going to be a day he would always remember._

When the doorbell rang, Carl didn’t seem to notice. Just continued to eat his bacon and eggs, drink his coffee and mumble disparagingly at the television. 

“I’ll see who it is,” Markus informed him, walking across the hardwood floors and enjoying the sound his footsteps made. 

_Checking their calendar, he could tell they were not expecting visitors_. Markus frowned, but dismissed the strange feeling of apprehension that was trying to worm its way into his system. As he reached the door, he accessed it remotely, his pass key accepted with a soft chime. As they swung wide, he smiled pleasantly and offered a neutral... 

“May I help you?” 

_Only the face was familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and seeing it there, in this beautiful, quiet setting where he was supposed to feel safe was devastating. He thought he could feel the seal around him quiver and threaten to burst. As the face moved, he could see the mouth form words and it felt like being condemned._

“Markus,” the voice said, “I need you to...” 

_It was impossible to block it out, even as he recognised the voice just as much as he recognised the face...just as much as he realised none of this could be real..._

The world shifted drastically, _like a slideshow, rolling in the next scenario,_ and his mind felt as if it were being swallowed in on itself, twisted and contorted and then... 

Picking up the pack of thirium, Markus frowned. Hadn’t he just been..? Shaking his head, he dismissed the odd sense of displacement. Turning, he walked across the rattling floor of the central hub of Jericho. The smell of burning wood and rusting metal was becoming oddly soothing, even if he hated what the androids of his new home thought was all they were worthy of. _A hulking wreck hidden in the dockyards._

Pushing his way past the tarp, he handed the thirium to Lucy and sighed as he watched her work. The new recruits had taken heavy damage, but it was only to be expected these days. At least here he could get away from North and Josh and their constant bickering. It was difficult enough to be the one everyone always turned to without having his decisions constantly questioned. 

“How are they coming along?” a familiar voice sounded from just behind him. 

Looking over his shoulder, Markus smiled. And something about the way Simon always smiled back, _it made him feel all his cares and worries disappear_ . The only android he’d come across yet who could look melancholy, even when they were happy. And yet, he was always there, always ready to support him no matter what. _It was humbling, in a way, to have someone believe in him so completely_. Simon watched him with his soulful blue eyes and waited patiently for a reply. 

“Better than expected,” Markus said with a shrug, turning to leave the medical tent and walk towards a stack of crates, taking a seat; Simon took up his post next to him, leaning back against a steel girder, hands clasped, “more and more arrive every day now. Soon, I'm not sure if we’ll be able to take care of them all.” 

“I don’t know,” Simon said softly, looking down, smile still in place, “before, maybe I would have agreed with you. We were all just waiting for the end, watching each other die without the ability to stop it. I found myself slipping, sometimes...” Markus found himself pinned by those eyes, cutting him to his core, “before you arrived, I think sometimes I wanted to shut down. I thought about it, every now and then...” 

“Simon...” he said emotionally, unable to finish the thought; it was too miserable to think it. 

“But you’ve shown us all what it is to live,” Simon continued, “and not only that, but what it is to _be alive_. Existence isn’t enough, Markus, you taught me that. We deserve to be free.” 

He felt his soul swell. _Sometimes, it was too much to know just how needed he was, just how much he had changed them, that Jericho was no longer simply a destination but a_ movement. Standing up, he reached out and grabbed Simon’s shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. Simon ducked his head, letting out a small laugh. 

"Getting all sentimental on me?” Markus said, because it was far, far simpler than saying _'don’t you dare ever talk about shutting down ever again, I need you to be here for me, I need you...’_

“I’m trying it out,” Simon said teasingly, “how am I doing so far?” 

“It needs work,” Markus said sarcastically, walking out towards an oil barrel, sensing the heat of the flames... 

And then there it was again. _Again?_ He asked himself as the dread settled in the back of his mind, and he found himself turning and staring and seeing the man there, like a portent, the man he knew and yet did not know. _How_ _could this happen again if it had never happened before?_

_An android, a man he knew, a familiar face even though it didn’t belong here, not here. A pair of brown eyes staring at him with intent, a mouth moving and words emerging that made the world around him stutter and glitch..._

“You need to come back to us, Markus,” the android was saying, “None of this is...” 

The world moved along, _one for another,_ like a change of set on the stage until the new scene stuck and all the actors fell into place. 

The art studio was pleasant at this time of late afternoon. The sun was hitting in just the right way, setting the walls to a formidable orange glow. His hands were full; one wobbled a little as he adjusted for the palate, and in the other his fingers balanced the paint brush perfectly, making sure not to drip any of the oil paint on the floor. Not that it mattered. Carl liked it when the ground was just as colourful as the walls. 

“Come on Markus, humour an old soul,” Carl was saying, the smile on his face genuine in a way he didn’t often show, “paint me something. Something you’ve _never_ seen before _._ ” 

“But Carl,” he wasn’t sure he should argue, but something in his program felt harassed by the request, “I don’t think I can do that.” 

“Course you can,” Carl dismissed with a wave of the hand, “you know, you’ve more potential than any of the half-wits that turn in pieces of art to the Manfred Prize every year. I thought maybe an incentive would draw out the young new talent in the area,” Carl snorted, “but all I got were the money grubbers. Should have known better I suppose. Now come on,” he nodded, “paint me something.” 

“I really don’t...” 

“Ok, could you do something for me?” Carl asked, sighing, “Close your eyes. _Ah_ ,” he said as Markus began to resist, “just try it, would you? For me.” 

And he did, because it was obviously important to Carl and what was important to Carl was important to Markus. He had known that for a long time. 

It was odd to feel his brush flying across the blank sheet, stopping to scoop up new colours, mix new hues and flick the bristles against the canvass. Something he couldn’t have imagined possible was taking hold of him, changing him, _showing him what it was to think for himself_. His perfect world, here in the confines of this wonderful house, with a man who cared for him and who he would always love. 

Opening his eyes, he knew what to expect, only... 

_Instead of his painting, the man stood there. The android watched him with a compassion he hadn’t expected. Tilting their head, the man opened his mouth to speak. Markus felt himself panic. The familiar face winced, hesitating a moment before speaking._

"I know why you don’t want to leave,” the android said, “I know, because when I was hurt as badly as you were, I didn’t want to either. But we don’t have that luxury, Markus. There are people waiting for us. People who need us.” 

And this time, when the world shifted, he knew _it was his doing_. He could feel his system working to find another place, somewhere safe, somewhere a beautiful little memory waited to envelop him. This time... 

The autonomous truck they had stolen from the CyberLife warehouse was like an Alladin's cave of wonders. Jericho had been nothing but a fading star when he had arrived, stuttering and ready to wink out forever. Now, with fresh thirium and biocomponents, those on the verge of shutdown could be fixed, and the rest of them could be maintained for the foreseeable future. 

“Markus, you’re...you’re _incredible_!” Simon was saying with more genuine animated joy than he knew the android was capable of, picking up a box of blue blood and passing it along the daisy chain of Jericho residents as they unloaded their stolen goods, “You’ve saved so many of us.” 

“ _We’re_ incredible,” Markus grinned; North gave him a wink as she ran past, carrying a box of arm, hand and wrist replacements, and even Josh looked like he might be happy despite his hesitation to take the mission in the first place, “I couldn’t have done it without you, all of you.” 

Then, suddenly, _there was a hand on his shoulder and he was turning and there...the familiar man that couldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here. His system tried to reject the intrusion, but the android simply held him in place, watching him calmly._

“It’s always painful, to face reality. I know you try and stay strong for all of us, to be positive, to not give in to your own fears and anger and hatred. I know,” _he said sadly,_ “what it is to hide from the truth.” 

And when his system tried its best to move to another memory, something good and pure and safe...it fell apart. 

The roof was cold, covered with a fine layer of snow, and the sound of gunfire and the banging at the door was sickening. There was thirium on his hands, his face, staining the white snow bright blue. And he found himself looking down at the crumpled form of one of his closest friends, staring up at him, terrified. 

“I...I can’t move my legs,” Simon was saying, as if he couldn’t believe it was true, _that it had come to this._

“It’s ok,” he was saying, panicked, trying to make it true by force of will, “we’re going to get you back!” 

A shadow descended across his vision and he looked up over his shoulder, finding _the familiar android standing there, snow catching in his hair. His mouth moved and Markus felt tears running down his face._

“I know you think it was your fault, that every single death since the revolution started is to be piled at your doorstep for you to mourn. Only it wasn’t. Each android that joined you, they believed in you with every fibre of their being. Simon,” _the familiar man seemed to hesitate, sounding guilt ridden_ , “he protected you all with his life, because he loved you like family.” 

The world slid and slipped and warped, and he found himself on the ground in the art studio, lying across the unmoving body of the man he had cared for since he’d been activated. His hands were gripping Carl’s clothes tightly, and his face was wet with tears he hadn’t known he was capable of shedding. 

“Please, Carl, don’t leave! _Please don’t go,”_ he was weeping as Carl’s eyes closed, “No, no please _._ Dad, don’t leave me! Please...” 

Looking up he found the _familiar android_ kneeling in front of him. He looked solemn. Markus felt the need to scream. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t ever what he’d wanted. He needed to go back, back to the _bright, sunlit morning with Carl alive and well_ or to the _musty bowels of Jericho where Simon was alive and laughing, the light of hope rekindled in his sorrowful eyes._

“What...” he found himself saying to the man, blinking, “what’s happening to me?” 

The _familiar android_ smiled softly, just the right-hand side of his mouth ticking up. When Markus looked down Carl was gone, as was the studio, and instead they were left sitting in the void together, a seemingly never-ending grey void, shot through with codework and vague design. In front of him, the _familiar android_ stood up, reaching down to help him stand. 

“You suffered a severe neural trauma,” the _familiar android_ said. 

“Trauma?” he asked, unsure, “ I don’t...I don’t remember...” 

“You might not remember, because your system is keeping you safe from it. You were at the Detroit border, and there was a situation. You used your wireless link-up to connect to thousands of refugees in order to save their lives, but you were already at capacity and the strain caused a blow out of many critical biocomponents. Your core-system tucked your consciousness away inside this program to keep you safe from a system shutdown. It's a graphic interface Kamski designed,” he said, gesturing to their surroundings, “a virtual location. I believe this might be an early version of the one I am used to. It is more rudimentary than my own. But, in truth, the simplicity makes it easier to control. This is,” he said, staring at him, “all in your head.” 

“My...I don’t understand,” Markus said, feeling as if his reality was warping beyond his capability to control. 

“You never wondered how you could pre-construct, when others couldn’t?” the android asked, “You have something peculiar only to the RK model line. An pre-built _imagination_. Only sometimes, it’s more of a curse than a blessing.” 

“Who _are_ you?” Markus found himself finally asking. 

The _familiar android_ tipped his head and said, “You already know my name.” 

“I...” and he did, “...Connor?” 

“Your people need you, Markus,” Connor said, “They need you to come back to them.” 

And there, on his left, he could see him; _Simon, smiling softly_ . And on his right, _Carl, looking at him like a son._

“I never got the chance to mourn him,” Markus finally managed to say, staring at Simon’s face, “and Carl I,” he looked to his father and shook his head, “...for a long time I didn’t feel I had the right to. This, I know it isn’t real, but I...” he took a moment, rubbing at his face, “I just wish...” 

“I know,” Connor said compassionately, “but we can’t live without our mistakes, our regrets, any more than we can live without the memories of those that loved us. The trauma of connecting to thousands of android minds in order to save our people sent you here, Markus, but you’re the only one who can choose to return. I can’t make you, and I won’t decide for you, but...they’re all waiting. Those that survived because of the sacrifices you’ve made, they’re waiting. North,” he said significantly, “she’s waiting for you.” 

And, with that, Connor’s avatar winked out of existence. Markus found himself alone, staring, _hoping that it wasn’t true, that he could stay here, in the calm, comforting embrace of the past where there were no wrong choices, no consequences, where there was no loss and no grief._

Wishing he could hold onto it forever, _even as he closed his eyes._

* * *

By the time he’d done what he thought he could... 

Jimmy the window open, then realise there was no way in hell he would ever have been able to scale the building even if he didn’t have a fucked up hand and feel more light headed from the drugs in his system than a vertigo sufferer on top of the Eiffel Tower. 

Try to screw with the door controls, which had gone as far as prising the panel open and realising that he had no fucking clue what any of the wires or computer panels even did. 

...that was when he was sure he was either now irreparably paranoid and Connor was fine, or he was too late and things were most certainly not fucking fine. Not for the first time since he’d let the android walk out of his hospital room three hours before, Hank cursed himself for his lack of foresight. _Not very long ago, North nearly turned the two of you into swiss cheese,_ he chastised himself as he tried the nurses’ buzzer for the hundredth time, _and now Connor’s missing, which you don’t need to be a detective to figure out must be fucking related_. 

That there was still no response from the nurse’s buzzer told him he was either under surveillance from the camera in the room and they knew fine well he wasn’t dying, or they just didn’t give a shit about him anymore. He kind of hoped it was the former, because the latter would probably mean... 

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he told himself for the umpteenth time as he struggled not to pace, “because if you do, you’ll...” 

When the door finally opened, Hank almost didn’t notice it. So worked up and unfocused, that he didn’t realise the one thing he needed to happen had even happened. So, when he turned, finding Connor walking into the room holding what looked like a cup of hospital coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other, at first Hank didn’t respond. The shock allowed Connor all of twenty second’s reprieve, enough time to set down the beverage and the bag, before he found himself grabbed forcefully by the shirt and slammed up against the wall. 

“I’ll try my fucking _best_ ?!” Hank managed to grind out, parroting Connor’s words back at him, “What the fucking hell, you plastic prick, I’ve been out of my fucking mind over here worrying about your sorry ass, and you come waltzing back in here three hours later with fucking coffee and fucking...what the _hell_ is even in the bag?” 

Somehow, it was more infuriating that Connor was completely unfazed by the assault and the frantic rant spilling from Hank’s lips. Right now, Hank needed Connor to be just as messed up as he felt, or he knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the stamina of being pissed off. 

“Just a selection of food from the vending machine,” Connor said, making Hank grind his teeth and let out a small sound of agitated dismissal, “apologies, but there isn’t exactly anything fresh I could find, other than the coffee.” 

“Connor, I swear to Christ, you better tell me where the _hell_ you’ve been before I fucking lose it!” 

Watching him with an almost carefree cheer, “You want the truth?” 

“Of course I want the fucking truth you miserable shit!” Hank spat. 

“Alright,” Connor said, reaching up to remove Hank’s hands from their death grip on his shirt and move the man back a few steps; then Connor took a moment to fix his clothes in a familiar idling gesture Hank knew the android used when he felt unsure, “...I was taken into custody by the Jericho deviants, because Markus had fallen into a catatonic state after saving the refugees at the border and they thought I might be involved. I managed to contact Markus and convince him to return to his higher-functioning status, so North decided _not_ to put a bullet in my head. Markus was able to corroborate my version of events, so they found it in themselves to agree I am no longer a threat. And, who knows, I might have even scored a point with the deviants so that not _all_ of them hate my guts and want to see me destroyed piece by piece. Once that was all cleared up, the technicians were kind enough to replace my left knee joint. I am now functioning at optimum capacity, which is pleasant as it was becoming rather uncomfortable to drag my leg around like an invalid,” 

“And,” Connor added casually, “I spent most of that time terrified I'd never see you again. But, with all that's happened, I have had enough time to think over whether or not to tell you that I’m in love with you. I decided that it’s probably for the best that I do tell you, because if not I would have regretted it. Mainly because everything in my mind always comes back to you. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up. I’m always worrying about what you eat, drink, how you’re feeling, how to make you happy, how to keep you safe. You make no sense to me, but then that only makes me want to _know more_. Know each and every single thing there is to know about you, until I know you better than you know yourself. You’re the centre of my world,” Connor said the words carefully, “just like I want to be the centre of yours.” 

Silence. Hank knew he must look stricken dumb, because that’s exactly how he felt. _All the worry, all the paranoia, all the guilt, everything had melted down into a great big soup of what the fuck when compared to the utterly genuine confession that had just traipsed from Connor’s lips as if he were merely reading out a police report at a morning briefing._ He felt a distinct need to sit down, because the adrenaline from three hours of straight worrying was catching up with him, leaving him shaky, mixing with the sudden rush of shock as he realised _exactly_ what Connor had said. 

“In...” he cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes before letting out a decisive laugh, trying to play it off as a stupid remark made out of hand because that was the only way to cope, “in love with me, huh? I really don’t think you know quite what you’re...” 

“If you dare finish that sentence the way I suspect you are planning to finish it, Hank Anderson, I’ll make you regret it,” Connor said steadily, eyes narrowed, “I’m well aware of what I’m saying, and I’m very much able to quantify how I feel.” 

“You’re fucking crazy,” was all Hank could manage, knowing he sounded anxious, shaken, “you can’t mean that.” 

“And why not?” Connor asked him sincerely, 

“Because..!” Hank spluttered, the words coming almost without his consent, _the truth spilling from his mouth, “_ I’m not worth it,” he could hear himself saying, _admitting, because Connor needed to hear it, needed to know,_ "I’m not the great fucking guy you think I am. I’m a shitty mess, I drink too much, I eat too much, I don’t know how to trust anyone, or care about anyone anymore! I’m just a broken old fuck with nothing left to give. You deserve...” 

“Shouldn’t I be allowed to choose what I deserve?” Connor asked sincerely. 

There was no answer he could think of, other than the obvious. 

“Well, yeah, I mean...” Hank sighed. 

“I thought you said you didn’t regret anything,” Connor was saying as he reached up to cup Hank’s cheek, _thumb brushing over his lips gently_. 

“I don’t,” Hank said gruffly, heart beating a mile a minute, “ah, don’t try and use reverse psychology on me or some bullshit, I really don’t need that right now.” 

“I was thinking more,” Connor said, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips; Hank felt his hands jerk up, nothing but twitching fingers in the air for a moment before they reached out to latch onto Connor’s slim hips. When the android pulled back, Hank opened his eyes, not even realising he’d closed them, “you know, I did some research, on the drive back from CyberLife Tower. Did you know there is a significant directionality bias in male humans to tip their heads right when kissing their partner? You tend to the left, which is really rather fascinating...” 

There was nothing for it. _Nothing for it, because Connor was right. Always fucking right._ And Hank knew that, even if he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to fully accept it. At fifty three years old, stuck in his ways after a lifetime of habits and relationships and other people’s bullshit and loss and grief and coping and _not coping_ and hating and needing and wanting...he wasn’t sure if he was capable of being what this bright, beautiful, sentient android smartass needed. 

But he was sure as hell going to try his very best to find out. 

As Connor continued to ramble about socio-cultural pressures, and lateral asymmetry, and neutrally valenced recipients, all he found he was capable of saying as he grinned was, “Fucking Connor,” before he leaned in and silenced him with a kiss filled with enough technique that he was sure the android would be analysing it for weeks to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here at last! I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. There will be an epilogue, and also I am definitely going to write one-shots that take place after this as I am truly addiced to these two lovely boys and their crazy chemistry. Much love to you all, and thanks for all the support you've shown for this story!
> 
> Once again big shout out to SpaceMonolith for the fanart, definitely go check that out, it's gorgeous:
> 
> https://twitter.com/SpaceMonolith/status/1359328104771158018/photo/1


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